


The Heart of a Lion

by Marshal1



Series: The Founders Series [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, F/M, Historical Fantasy, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 06:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 77,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13266048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marshal1/pseuds/Marshal1
Summary: Book One of the 'Founders Series': At a time when kings, knights and wizards compete for power over magical Britain, a young boy called Godric struggles to survive in the brutal world of medieval magic…





	1. Prologue: The Boy who Disappeared

Black-Hollow, 1083

Godric was six summers old when he first discovered he was different. It happened on a bright spring's day, when the small manor of Black-Hollow basked in the warmth of a blazing sun, illuminating the surrounding landscape with a golden glow. Black-Hollow was a hive of chaotic preparations for the coming May Day festivities. The inhabitants of the nearby village who weren't cultivating the local fields were busy readying the food, drink and games that would be enjoyed in abundance. Young maidens waited eagerly for the announcement of the year's Queen of May, whilst wiser heads chuckled knowingly at the antics of their younger brethren, remembering bygone days and their own youthful antics.  


Within the great manor house, the festivities were not the only demand. Sir Edmund's eldest son William had recently returned from his duties at the royal court, where he was a page to his monarch and namesake. He'd been given leave by the King to briefly enjoy the spring festivities at his familial home, and Sir Edmund had declared a feast to celebrate his son's return. Tall, strong and training to become a knight, the prodigal son was constantly at his father's side, observing the duties of a liege lord that would one day fall on his shoulders. The atmosphere around them was a swirling tempest of rushing servants, loud noises and rich aromas. Although Sir Edmund's household was small compared to the estates of the great magnates of the realm, the celebrations would be a lavish display of his pride in his eldest son's achievements, whilst also flaunting his rising status before his richer neighbours at Thanesfell. No one would suspect that Sir Edmund even had a second son.

Godric, the second son of Sir Edmund, wandered alone and undaunted through the chaos. He was a small, sickly child and weaved unnoticed amongst the bustling servants like a ghostly wraith from pagan folklore. Despite his head of bright auburn hair, no one detected his escape as he slipped away from his overbearing nurse to roam unhindered around the heaving courtyard. He revelled in the sights and sounds which greeted him, managing to evade notice and slink out from the suffocating serenity of his mother's private quarters. He found no difficulty in passing past the manor house's courtyard enclosures small gate as its guards, leaning lazily against tall spears, dosed in the sunlight. He skirted around the small palisade of earthwork and timber and soon reached a small meadow. He had been here before, as it was a favoured spot where his mother and her ladies often sought refuge away from the bustle of the household. Yet, this was not the young boy's destination; for what lay beyond the meadow was what held his interest. Creeping through the foliage at the meadow's edge, with his short frame hidden by the undergrowth, Godric's eyes widened at the sight before him.

The tiltyard was where the half-dozen household knights of his father's retinue practiced their horsemanship and honed their martial prowess. Godric looked on from the meadow as two mounted knights were being drilled. They stood tall in the saddle and performed each elaborate manoeuvre with seemingly effortless ease, although the padded gambesons they wore were drenched in sweat and the aching arms which held lances, swords and kite-shaped shields alluded to the physical and mental strain they were under. From Godric's position, he could make out the rest of his father's retinue. One was resting in the long grass at the edge of the tiltyard, breathing heavily as he stretched sore limbs. Two more were sparring eagerly with wooden staves, each man testing and advising the other, offering advice even as they attempted to gain the upper hand. The last man was a little distance away, struggling to mount a temperamental and restive horse. 

Godric was spellbound. He had dreamed of being just like his father, wielding a sword and riding fearlessly into battle. Whenever the opportunity arose, Godric was often found listening to minstrel tales of daring warriors and mighty heroes. However, he had yet to see knights in practice, as his sickly health often kept him confined to his father's hall.  


Eager to see more, the little boy darted forwards from the cover of the meadow, reaching an old cart in which a panoply of training weapons were stacked. Crouching down, he hid unnoticed in its shadows. Godric was grinning as the two knights thundered past him in a skilful, martial dance, grunting with exertion as they twisted their mounts about and the clash of steel rang out as their swords met. He'd never seen anything like it; although it was just like he'd imagined it. His childish eyes sparkling with wonder, Godric realised then that this was where his fate would lead him. One day he would be one of these mounted men, wielding a sword with a legendary prowess which would inspire songs of his exploits. However, his youthful wonderment was quelled as a loud shout reached Godric's ears, and the smile slowly vanished from his face as he recognised the gruff voice with a heavy heart.

The voice belonged to Siward, his father's steward and closest companion, who was currently observing the practicing knights with a shrewd eye. Godric shrank lower at the sight of him. He held a fear of this man and rightly so. Siward was not a mean-spirited man, but he was a giant in stature, standing a head taller than many men and his personality was as hard and harsh as his cold, brutal features. He intimidated many grown men, let alone a six-year-old child. Godric also knew that if Siward found him there, then he'd suffer a beating and one from his father too. Fortunately, for the moment, Siward's dark eyes were solely fixed upon the training men, relying on the skilful eye of a seasoned warrior to advise and admonish them with a voice which rumbled like thunder. 

Siward was a veteran of the years before the coming of King William and his Normans, where he had served Sir Edmund's father as a household warrior. In those fateful days, Siward had marched against them and had fought at Senlac Hill. His strength and skill were legendary, and it was rumoured he'd cleaved a knight and his mount in two with one strike of his Danish axe. Yet, it hadn't been enough to stem the tide of defeat. Whilst the invaders had claimed victory, Siward had survived, staggering away from that bloody hill, leaving two sons and his oath-sworn lord dead. Wounded and hurting, he'd reached Black-Hollow days later, and had loyally served his Lord's surviving son ever since with a battered pride and a facial scar that would cause evil spirits and vagabonds to quiver in fear. Godric was right to feel intimidated, but the old man was never unkind and usually ignored the sickly child if Godric was scurrying about in his presence.

His heart hammering, Godric watched engrossed before wisely deciding to retreat to the meadow. Crouching low, he began to edge out from under the cart whilst a distracted Siward was berating one of the mounted men for a mistake. Breathing a sigh of relief, Godric twisted about, preparing to dart towards the sanctuary of the meadow when something caught his eye. A bright flash of sunlight reflecting off polished steel, for a sword was lying discarded in the grass nearby. 

Godric paused, staring curiously at the weapon. Glancing back to see that Siward was still distracted, Godric sped off in the direction of the gleaming sword. As he reached it, he stared down at the blade in wonder and unable to resist the temptation, he hesitantly bent down and wrapped his small hands around the worn hilt. The little boy's feeble strength did not hinder his efforts to try and lift the sword and he succeeded in lifting the lower end of the sword, although the sword's heavy blade and blunted tip refused to budge. Frowning, Godric tried again, straining with all his strength to no avail. The sword remained unmoving, proving too heavy and cumbersome for a six-year-old child. Growing frustrated, Godric planted his feet apart and heaved with one last attempt and this time the blade's tip wavered and briefly rose from the ground, before falling quickly with a dull thud as the boy's strength gave out and he stumbled backwards. But Godric beamed at his brief success, feeling a wave of pride wash over him at his achievement as he briefly wondered whether he would one day wield a sword just like this.

The spell was broken by a shrill call from beyond the meadow.

'Godric.' The little boy stilled, paling considerably. He recognised the voice of the young nursemaid instantly. The call came again, closer this time. The girl sounded stressed and worried, although nothing compared to Godric's own fear as a harsh voice suddenly barked behind him.

'Boy!' 

Godric twisted around to find Siward staring at him from the far side of the tiltyard, the nurse's shout having alerted him of the boy's presence. The old warrior took a step towards him, his large hands curling into fists as his anger rose at the sight of the sword in Godric’s hands.

'Boy. Come here.' Godric dropped the sword, which landed with a dull thud in the grass. He briefly considered fleeing the scene, but the idea was immediately dispelled by a shout of pain and shock which drew the attention of all those nearby.

'Shit!' 

The knight who had been attempting to mount the struggling horse had half succeeded when the beast bucked and flung the poor man away. The knight landed heavily with a cry as the horse suddenly bolted, charging mindlessly towards Godric. Siward quickly realised what would happen, but he was too far away to physically intervene, instead raising his own voice to divert the rampaging animal. Yet, to no avail, for the horse was blinded by panic and continued to bear down on the helpless boy standing transfixed by fear, eyes wide as this monstrous animal galloped towards him. Godric was dimly aware of a high-pitched scream as his nurse entered the clearing; of his father's men calling for him to move. But the little boy could not move, for his world was consumed by the thunderous screaming of the beast charging towards him, its eyes wide with a fear that mirrored his own. There was no time to act, only for Godric to close his eyes and anticipate the collision that would leave his body broken and trampled as the rampaging stallion finally reached him.

Then suddenly there was a loud crack, and Godric felt as if his body was being forcibly dragged and flung to the side. Then silence. Just a sudden, all-encompassing silence. Godric's eyes remained closed, his breathing now laboured as if he’d undergone a sudden exertion. Oddly, there was no pain, just the gentle caress of the spring breeze. The roar and thunder a few heartbeats ago was gone, swiftly disappearing as if it had all occurred a great distance away. Godric took a few unsteady breaths before tentatively opening his eyes, suddenly realising that he was alive and miraculously unharmed.

He was still at the tiltyard; only now it lay between him and the weapons cart. Frowning, Godric could see his nurse standing at the edge of the suddenly far off meadow, her tearful eyes wide and astonished, her hand quivering in front of her mouth as if to muffle a scream that had died on her lips. Beyond her and still galloping towards the distant fields was the beast that should have killed him. Godric noticed his father's men staring, all rendered speechless by his astonishing feat. Even Siward had no words for him. As Godric's gaze fell on the seasoned warrior, he found those dark eyes staring blankly back at him in astonishment. A sudden shuffling beside him caught the little boy's attention and he turned to find the man the bolting horse had injured hastily crawling away. There was something different in this man's eyes, something which didn't reflect shock but an emotion that had never been directed towards the six-year-old. Fear.

'Boy?' Siward said oddly, his voice questioning and unsure. Godric stared unflinchingly back before suddenly his world was spinning and he collapsed to the ground, retching loudly as a loud chorus of shouting rose from the black void that greeted him.

* * *

Sir Edmund, the Lord of Black-Hollow, was not in a pleasant mood. His day had started well, but as he was hearing tales of his son's life at court, he had not expected the sudden storm of fear, anger and accusation which had descended upon his family. The cause of it was his second son Godric. 

Edmund was rarely an unkind man. He had survived the social changes which had killed, exiled or disinherited many of his fellow countrymen, as well as thriving. He may be Saxon born, and he may resent and lament the harsh treatment of his people in the secrecy of his private chambers, but he was loyal to his King, and his loyalty had been rewarded with land, a beautiful Norman bride and a place at court for his eldest son. It had taken a great degree of tact and patience to secure these rewards, to ignore the jibes and insults of not only the Norman peers who saw him as an upstart and outsider, but the accusations of cowardice and betrayal often flung at him by his own people. He loved his eldest son dearly, was generous to his followers and although their marriage had soured since their wedding day, he remained fond of his placid and whimsical wife. 

Godric was a different matter, for when it came to his second son, Edmund could find nothing but loathing and contempt. The boy was useless; so sickly that he could barely leave his mother's skirts and Edmund was resigned to the fact that only a career in the Church or an early grave awaited Godric. He could barely suffer the boy's presence, and felt a deeply ingrained resentment towards the son who had been named after his paternal grandfather. Although they shared an uncanny facial likeness, the similarities ended there. Godric of Black-Hollow had been a hale and hearty man, stronger than most men and a born warrior. Sir Edmund's son was a pale ghost of a boy, an embarrassment in his father's eyes, whose ill health and feeble nature was an insult to Sir Edmund's honour. Sir Edmund would never have suspected that Godric could cause such a tempest of trouble, let alone have potentially ruined the family and all his father's hard-earned success.

The Lord of Black-Hollow strode about his private bedchamber. He was not alone. His wife sat perched on the edge of their marriage bed, distaff forgotten beside her as she wrapped her arms tenderly around her youngest son as if to reassure herself that he was still alive and well. Lady Alys was still a beautiful woman, with long dark hair and bright emerald eyes which had once sparkled with life and energy. However, the shadowy rims now lurking there wove their own tale of unhappiness and discontent. Godric's eyes usually danced with curiosity, especially when he was surrounded by his father's knightly regalia, like the large shield resting against a far wall, emblazoned with a rampant gold lion on a red field. But today his eyes were downcast and his meekness and willingness to be comforted by his mother's coddling behaviour made Edmund want to beat him bloody. Besides his mother and younger brother stood William, Edmund's eldest son. He was thirteen years old, on the cusp of becoming a squire in the king's household and whose loyalty and kind heart and made him a popular companion. Now his smile was missing, and he nervously watched his father pace about the room, unsure of the events which had transpired. 

The local parish priest was also present, a man called Father Thomas whose early promise had tempered into disappointment and bitter resentment over his lot in life. He was the kind of man who would heap responsibility for his own misfortunes on the curses of pagans and wild men he believed were envious of his piety and potential. Siward stood behind him, watching silently from the shadows of the chamber's entrance. Slowly, Edmund paused and turned his attention to his old friend,

'Tell the tale again?'

'Devilry!' hissed the priest under his breath, his beady and calculating eyes casting disapproving glares at Godric. Lady Alys scowled at him angrily whilst her husband remained unmoved, awaiting Siward's answer.

'I've already explained, Lord. The boy slipped away from his nurse and wandered down to the tiltyard. We didn't realise he was there until we heard the girl call for him, but by then the horse was bolting…'

'He was watching the men practice? That wouldn't usually escape your attention!' Edmund interrupted waspishly. Siward looked displeased with the criticism, but nodded reluctantly.

'He's small for a boy. The girl should have kept better notice of his whereabouts.'

'The girl's already been punished. I whipped her myself.' Edmund grunted darkly, remembering how he had vented his fury by taking a belt to the weeping girl's back. When she'd been beaten bloody and lay whimpering at his feet, he'd callously discharged her from his service. Having to find a new nurse was just another problem the boy had caused. His wife's eye's burned with displeasure and revulsion at her husband's actions. Siward simply shrugged, unmoved by the girl's fate.

'The boy tried to slip away when he noticed me, but he was distracted by a discarded sword one of the lads had dropped. He'd been trying to lift it when I was alerted to his presence. By then the horse was bolting and it was too late to intervene. The beast went straight for him. There was nothing any of us could do to stop him being killed, and the boy seemed rooted to the spot, stricken by fear.' He paused, and glanced at Godric, gesturing helplessly, 'Then he wasn't there. The dust had yet to settle and I thought he was surely dead. But when one of the lad's cried out and I turned and saw him standing on the other side of the yard, alive and not a scratch on him…I'm sorry Lord, but I don't know how he did it. One moment he was there and likely to be killed; the next, he's disappeared.' 

Silence followed as Siward's tale settled on the occupants. It was Father Thomas who broke it, his eyes fixed expectantly on the Lord of Black-Hollow.

'The Church won't accept him. Not after this.'

'Why?' demanded Edmund,

‘You think he can take holy vows with an affliction like this?’ 

'Then what would you advise?' Edmund growled, and the priest shrugged, his eyes glinting maliciously,

'I do not seek to influence your judgement, Lord. However, it is our sacred duty to ensure that this demon does not escape him and bring further evil and ill-will down upon others.' He paused, running his tongue over dry lips, 'Perhaps a swift end would suffice. It's the only way to be sure!'

‘Father…’ William began, but his horrified interruption was overshadowed by his mother.

'No!' cried Alys, passing Godric to his brother and leaping to her feet. She stepped protectively in front of her young child, shielding him from the priest. Edmund flinched in surprise at the sudden outburst from his usually placid wife.

'You do not understand,’ he said evasively.

'I will not hear of it.' Alys cried again, throwing aside her placid reputation and glaring angrily at Father Thomas, who returned it with equal contempt, 'I will not allow it!'

'You will continue to harbour this affliction?’ Father Thomas spat, ‘You would willingly encourage the evil that lies within the boy…'

'Silence, you foul toad!'

'Insolent woman,' the priest snarled, looking outraged by the insult. However, his outburst was suddenly cut short as a heavy hand clamped painfully down upon his shoulder. Glancing back, he found Siward looming over him, glaring down with fire in his eyes. Siward was loyal to the Lord of Black-Hollow and respectful to the Church, but the thought of harming a young child did not sit well with the aging warrior.

'Hold your tongue.' He growled and the threat in his voice discouraged any argument. The priest breathed deeply as if preparing to continue trading insults, but he valued his own skin and was clearly intimidated by Siward's size. He nodded, breaking free of Siward’s grip and stepping back to broodingly fix Alys with an icy glare. She returned it tenfold before turning to her husband, who had remained silent throughout the confrontation as he stared impassively at his youngest son.

'You have stayed oddly silent, husband?' she said bitingly. Edmund looked up, but couldn't hold her gaze for long. The priest's words had wormed their way into a heart already undermined by contempt and fear at what the boy could do; at what this dreaded feat meant. With a shake of his head, he murmured softly,

'What else can we do?' 

Alys looked at him in disbelief, appalled.

'You agree with this snake?' she accused him,

'What would you have me do?' Edmund retaliated, his own voice rising as anger came to his defence. Alys was still on her feet and her rage, rising from a place within her soul she had long ago forgotten existed. Gone was the serene and dutiful wife of a minor noble. In her place stood a fiery shieldmaiden from the pagan legends of her sea-raiding ancestors, her passive nature replaced by an impassioned, righteous fury.

'I will not let you touch my child!' she snarled, ‘so what if the Church refuses him. He is still our son and there are other lives he could lead. Maybe it is not my son who is at fault, but the Church that is not good enough for my son!'

'Blasphemy!' spat the priest, but his declaration was ignored by the Lord and Lady of Black-Hollow as they stared furiously at each other.

'The boy will have to make his own way in the world,’ Edmund declared stubbornly, ‘if the Church will not have him, then he'll have no charity from me.'

'Boy! Always boy and never Godric, the name you bestowed upon him at birth. The boy named after your father. He will make his own way, like his grandfather before him. Our son has heart Edmund. I have seen it. You simply choose to ignore it, like you ignore his very existence. I will accept it no more. I have already sacrificed William to your ambitions, and I am proud of his achievements. He's a good boy and he'll be an accomplished man. But given the chance then so will Godric.'

'With this affliction?' Edmund growled, gesturing wildly at his son who whimpered and shuffled backwards to distance himself from his father. This only served to fuel the man's anger further, 'you think this weakling will achieve anything other than an early grave with a devil like this possessing him?’

'There is no demon! Can't you see that?' Alys told her husband, 'can’t he see that he is just like his uncle!' 

Edmund seemed to swell in rage at the mere mention of the man his wife had dared to speak of, despite him being her brother. 

'What has that man got to do with this?' He growled threateningly, his voice now low and as cold as steel.

'Everything!' replied his wife in the same tone, 'Are you blind to see that the same power flows in their veins, the same legacy. If you will not support your son, then why not send him to my brother…'

'No,' Edmund suddenly roared, striding forwards until he looked down at his wife with violent eyes, 'I will not send the boy to him. I will not have that man meddling in my affairs. Do you really wish to see our son sent to a man who openly consorts with spirits and elves? A man who has laid with beasts; by God have you heard of that woman he married? Have you heard the rumours of what she is?'

'Alain's life is not our concern and I will not have you decry him. He is a man of honour who deserves our respect…'

'He is nothing to me!'

'Just like our son?' Aly's responded, the fiery passion giving way to tears of anguish as she suddenly grasped her husband's robes, 'I beg you, send him away from here, for he will know nothing but hurt if he stays. Send him to my brother.' As his mother begged for his life, Godric, confused by the turmoil around him, saw his father's hand twitch towards the sword perched beside the chamber's window. He glared coldly down at her,

'I will not send him to that sorcerer,' he snarled contemptuously, 'the boy will die by my own hand before I ever agree to send him to that butcher.'

'Bastard,' gasped Alys out, her inner fire flaring, 'you cold, heartless bastard.'

'Besides,' Edmund continued piteously, 'the boy's most likely responsible for your barrenness. His birth almost killed you. Maybe if it wasn't for this evil in him then we would have been gifted with more sons, and his death would be of no concern…' 

He went silent as Alys launched forwards and slapped him hard across the face with all the force she could muster. Silence descended on the chambers occupants. Then Edmund slowly turned back to face his wife, his features darkening quicker than the reddening mark on his cheek. Guessing his father's intentions, William hastily stepped in front of Godric's line of sight, not wanting his younger brother to witness what was about to happen.

The first blow sent Alys crashing to the floor with a cry. Aly's hazily attempted to rise, but her husband's second blow drove her face into the scented rushes with a pained grunt. Edmund stood over her, his breathing distorted by his fury. He slowly began to unbuckle his large leather belt, still bloodstained from the beating he had given the maid.  


'Father,' a shocked William attempted to intervene, but came to an abrupt halt when Edmund's hand jerked in his direction. His father had never raised his hand towards his beloved eldest son before. Suddenly Aly's was on her knees and was reaching out towards William. A cut lip was sending a slow trickle of blood down her chin before falling to the crumpled rushes at their feet and her face was already swelling, but Alys managed to catch William's face in her hands and whispered to him urgently,

'No, no William, listen to me. Everything's fine, take Godric back to your bedchamber, take him away from here.' William hesitated, fear dancing in his eyes. He'd never experienced anything like this. He heard a sniffling whimper behind him, for Godric had burst into tears. Understanding his mother's wishes and realising the danger his father's temper posed to Godric, he nodded and submitted to his mother's demands. Seeing tears mingling with blood on his mother's beautiful face made him hesitate, but a heavy hand swiftly steered him towards the door. Father Thomas was already gone, having left at the first sign of violence, a malicious smirk adorning his features. But Siward remained and he dragged both boys from the room, his face grimmer than they had ever seen it. As Godric was steered past the rampant lion shield, he spotted a crimson stain blemishing its finery. His mother's blood. A swift crack and an agonised cry rang out, echoing down the small corridor behind them.

The atmosphere in the manor was dark and subdued, the earlier gaiety of jovial festivities giving way to fear and speculation as rumours concerning the lord's youngest son spread like wildfire. Siward deposited them in their private quarters but didn’t linger, looking concerned and muttering under his breath about having a much-needed word with Father Thomas as he left. 

The silence between the two brothers was strained. Whilst William's frustration and worry were obvious, Godric remained tearful and subdued, as silent tears slid unchecked down his face, not wanting to risk stirring his brother's ire. Eventually deciding it would be best to occupy his frayed mind, William left, but swiftly returned with a small platter of sweetmeats and other delicacies that he had charmed Black-Hollow’s cook into giving him. He found Godric curled up and still weeping quietly. Sympathy swelled William's heart as he sat beside his brother and gently put an arm around the younger boy. Godric stiffened for a moment, before accepting his brother’s support. After a while, a small voice choked out,

'I'm sorry.' William looked down at him sadly,

'It's not your fault Godric.'

'If I hadn't slipped away…'

'There's a lot of things that shouldn't have happened today,' the older boy shrugged, 'sneaking away because you wanted to watch the knights plying their trade was far from the worst.’

'Will mother be alright?' Godric asked after a pause, sounding so desperate that it caused William’s voice to stumble,

'Of…of course she will.' His reply sounded hollow and devoid of comfort, even to himself. In truth, William was just as confused as his younger brother. He had suspected that his parent's relationship was strained and had known that a husband held the right to beat his wife if she deserved it. He had seen it before at the King’s court and had heard rumours of such men. The revulsion he felt at seeing the wives and whores of courtiers sporting bruised and bloodied faces flooded him again as he remembered his mother’s own battered face. 

More puzzling was the strange mention of their uncle and the extent of their father’s hatred for him. William had never crossed paths with Lord Alain of Avalon. However, rumours abounded about who and what his uncle was, most of which a simple page like William didn’t dare to believe. Even his uncle’s wife was a cause for gossip and it was claimed that she was no woman at all, but a creature born from the heathen world of myth and magic. William often scoffed at these fanciful tales, but now he questioned his own instincts.  


William knew that his uncle rarely lingered at court before returning to his mysterious lands, despite the King trusting his counsel. After all, Lord Alain was a figure who was both greatly admired and fiercely maligned. William shuddered at the thought of his earnest little brother following a similar path. However, would such a road be any worse than following in their father’s footsteps by staining their hands with innocent blood. 

The older boy glanced down at Godric again, who was picking absentmindedly at the meagre platter. Did Godric share an unknown legacy with their strange uncle? Did he possess a power that William could only dream of possessing and would he be feared and endangered by it? William’s face hardened with determination; if his brother was in danger then William would help him. He would protect Godric from harm, even if that meant defying the father he loved. His arm tightened around Godric's shoulders and he ruffled the smaller boy's hair playfully,

'Tell me about your adventure little brother? What did you think of our knights?' William had barely finished when Godric responded enthusiastically, causing his brother to laugh aloud at the eagerness in which his brother wiped away at stray tears and began retelling the tale.

* * *

Later that night, Godric woke from a fitful sleep to discover a shadowy figure sat beside him, softly stroking his hair. A nearby candle still burned dimly in the whispery light, but the gentleness she applied to the caress told him that it was his mother before his blurred sight had cleared. He saw her smile when she realised he was awake, her face still half shielded by the shadows. She placed a finger to her lips, telling him to be silent. His brother stirred next to him but did not wake from his slumber. She offered William's sleeping form a warm and fond smile, before turning back to Godric.

'You should be asleep little one,' she admonished him softly.

'I was worried about you,’ he admitted in a whisper, ‘and the night-terrors will not go away.’

'I'm here now and perfectly fine,' her voice quivered slightly at the lie, but Godric didn't notice. He merely stared tiredly up at his mother, content in her presence.

'I don't want to be different,' he admitted quietly, blurting out his fears to her like he could never do to anyone else.

'It cannot be helped,' Alys whispered soothingly, 'but this difference doesn’t define you, Godric. It is your choices that determine what man you will become. You have been given a gift. You should treasure it.'

'I want to be a knight. I want to have a horse and a sword' She chuckled fondly at his earnestness. She leant down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead,

'You can be whatever you want to be,' she assured him gently.

'Will you stay with me?'

‘Always,’ she smiled fondly at him, ‘I'll be here whenever you need me.' Godric nodded before his eyes began to close again, exhaustion from the day's trials finally taking their toll. Alys watched him as he slept, her hand still resting in his soft auburn hair as she smiled sadly down at him. She maintained her silent vigil long into the night, simply content to watch her little boy dream.

'Sleep Godric,' she whispered softly, tears glistening in the flickering candle light as they streamed down her bruised and swollen face. Soon she would seek out the healing salves and poultices she stored hidden in her chamber, but she would stay a little longer beside her sleeping sons, ‘you have heart, little knight. Never lose your courage, for one day you will face trials and tests which would claim the hearts of lesser men. You will be your own man, Godric, and you will conquer every challenge you encounter. One day you will make us all proud, my brave little lion.’


	2. The King's Coronation

Westminster, 1087

Godric stood alone in the courtyards of the great palace of Westminster. Around him strode the kingdom's most powerful men, going about their business amongst the fervent preparations for the new king's upcoming coronation. Strangely, the current atmosphere lacked the air of celebration that Godric had anticipated on the long road from Black-Hollow. Instead, it was tense and hostile. Magnates stalked past each other like wolves, hands clasped on sword hilts and their eyes radiating distrust. Even allies and friends spoke in guarded tones, unsure of prying eyes and idle tongues.

A knight emerged from the gates, sat astride a large warhorse. As the beast passed it came perilously close to shunting Godric aside. The knight barely spared the boy a glance before bluntly dismissing him,

'Fuck off!' The grunted command sent Godric scurrying to the edge of the courtyard and away from the assembling noblemen, his father's earlier warning ringing in his ears.

‘Don’t wander off,' he'd ordered the boy on their arrival. His father's stern gaze had held a hidden threat and Godric feared his father's wrath more than any knight. The will to obey his father's wishes had been beaten into him from a young age, so he remained in the courtyard, waiting nervously in the shadows of the palace's outer wall. He rubbed at eyes which had been irritated by the dust and dirt of a long ride from Black-Hollow to Westminster. His father's small retinue had made good progress along dusty and dangerous roads. The majesty of the surrounding landscape had been lost upon the boy huddled protectively amidst the small body of armed men and Godric had barely lifted his gaze to see St Peter's Abbey looming on the distant horizon. Instead, his green eyes were downcast and stinging from the dust and overpowering stench of sweat and horseshit which clung to the road. When he dared to lift them, all he'd seen was the billowing crimson of his father's cloak as the Lord of Black-Hollow rode at the front of the retinue. 

They were a sombre group, and they didn't possess the patience to deal with an inquisitive boy. The retinue was comprised of eight hardened men, all riding in close formation. Hands clasped long lances tightly and shields hung ready at their sides, each bearing the worn image of a rampant golden lion on a field of red. Eyes constantly scanned their surroundings, for these were dangerous times and unsuspecting men would soon find themselves at the mercy of outlaws, robber knights and even fouler vagabonds. It was an uncertain time, for a new king was to be crowned.

Godric remembered the brief conversation he had held with his father in Black-Hollow's cold and austere hall. The boy had initially been jubilant, for his father rarely sought his companionship and Godric loathed the harsh lessons he was forced to endure under Father Thomas’s harsh tutoring. However, the jubilation was immediately extinguished. Only the crackling hearth fire and the growls of his father's hounds as they feasted upon scraps from the last meal broke the hall’s silence. Godric had hesitated, before summoning the courage to approach his father, who sat broodingly in his great seat. Godric noticed that his father’s usual glare was tinged with weariness, but he still didn’t dare meet the man’s gaze. Siward moved silently to stand behind Sir Edmund.

'The King is dead'. Godric's head had shot up in astonishment. King William was dead? It was no wonder his father appeared so troubled. Godric suddenly remembered seeing a messenger from Thanesfell that morning, hastily breaking his fast before riding away to deliver the urgent message to Sir Edmund’s neighbours. The King was dead! 

'How?' Godric had squeaked. His father had been tapping the table absentmindedly,

‘He was dealing with another revolt in Mantes when his horse was spooked. The godforsaken beast threw him against his saddle's pommel, and it ruptured his gut. He died in  
Rouen.' 

Godric's mouth gaped in surprise. The Conqueror was a warrior king and he had survived countless battles and rebellions. It seemed odd that he’d died in such an unlikely manner. Godric noticed that his father seemed genuinely aggrieved at the news; whilst he noticed a satisfied smile flicker at the corner of the usually stoic Siward's lips. The old warrior even spat on the scented floor rushes in disbelief when his father continued, claiming that the old King had been repentant for the sins he had committed against the English people. If Sir Edmund saw, he chose to ignore it. Instead, he had fixed Godric with an intense glare,

'The kingdom will go to Rufus whilst Curthose gets Normandy. The fool deserves it. No man who rebels against his own father should be a king. Curthose may be the eldest but when it comes to ruling a kingdom, I'm glad we've landed Rufus. The messenger who arrived last night brought news that I have been summoned to the coronation. As my son and heir, I want you to attend also.' 

Godric suppressed his delight at the opportunity, for his father practically spat the words. The misfortune which had befallen the Lord of Black-Hollow was a wretched and well-known tale. Two years following the incident in which Godric had miraculously survived an encounter with a bolting horse, his mother had fallen pregnant once again. His parents were overjoyed at the news, especially his father, as they had long since given up hope that his mother could conceive in her delicate state. The months that followed were some of the happiest times Godric had known. The fractures in the fraught relationship which had characterised his parent's marriage had somewhat healed, and Sir Edmund had even treated Godric with the respect a son deserved, rather than the contempt he had previously displayed. 

Then the dark times arrived. One day his mother had retired early to her quarters, feeling faint. Before they knew it her health had deteriorated, and she had sickened. As her fever grew worse she miscarried the baby; a small boy, although Godric could scarcely tell when he'd glimpsed the tiny bundle being carried past by a tearful servant. Screams of anguish and pain had echoed around the manor. The situation became so desperate that the midwife dared to suggest that Sir Edmund should send for Lord Alain of Avalon, for he was rumoured to be skilled in healing lore. Sir Edmund had dismissed her advice and loudly banished her from Black-Hollow. 

Two days later the Lady Alys was dead. Godric barely remembered the weeks which followed. Only the vigil over his mother's body was etched into his memory. Her eyes were closed as if she peacefully rested in a gentle slumber and her pale skin seemed to glow in an otherworldly fashion. His father had mourned Alys, although some believed that his grief was more for the lost child than his dead wife. Alys had been buried in a hurried ceremony at the local churchyard and life had moved on.

Unfortunately, worse was to come. Only a few months had passed before a messenger had arrived directly from the King's court bearing grave news. William, Godric's elder brother and his father's pride and joy, was dead. He had been killed in a freak accident whilst hunting with his friends. At this news, Sir Edmund had fallen into a dark depression, consigning himself to his chamber and refusing to leave. With William's death, Sir Edmund's familial ambitions seemed to die with him and he grieved for his beloved son more than he ever did his late wife. Wallowing in drunkenness and depression, Sir Edmund would rant and brooded on the manner of William’s death. His eldest son had been a proud and confident horseman and Sir Edmund could not hide his disbelief that William had been felled by a fall from the saddle. 

‘He would not fall!’ Sir Edmund would growl darkly, forgetting the existence of his surviving son and leaving Godric to grieve alone. 

Until the rumours began. Looking back, Godric suspected that they had originated from the local priest, who had hated Godric for many years and believed that the young boy harboured evil. Father Thomas would cuff him, sneer at him from the shadows and breed intolerance for the strange occurrences which plagued Godric. When the young boy finally summoned what fleeting courage he could muster to confront the vile man about his unreasonable behaviour, his answer was always the same.

‘Whoreson,’ Father Thomas would hiss so venomously that Godric cowered away from the spittle that showered over him, ‘just like the rest of your heathen kind, Devil!’

Godric didn’t know what the implied insult meant, but he was so scared that he didn’t dare tell his father, fearing another beating from the grief-stricken and unstable man. Instead, he suffered from the torment in silence, his youthful spirit crumbling with every insult or taunt hissed at him. He ignored the raging emotion within him which longed to break free and run rampant, shackling it in chains and burying it deep within his tortured soul. Godric had noticed his father's servants speaking in hushed whispers, fearing and cursing his presence. Soon, they refused to serve him altogether. He had tried to ignore it, but the accusation in people's eyes gradually began to bother him and amidst his anger and hurt, it grew more and more difficult to control his abilities.

Strange happenings in Godric's presence became commonplace. As they grew in number, so did the antagonism towards him. Only this time his mother and brother were gone, the two who had sheltered and defended Godric the most. His father, grief-stricken and wallowing in despair, locked himself away in his private chambers and remained ignorant of the hate and fear surrounding his son. Eventually, matters came to a head when Godric was attacked as he walked back from a brief visit to the small meadow his mother had enjoyed frequenting. An unknown assailant had launched a stone at the young boy, striking him on the head and knocking him unconscious. Godric didn’t know who it was, but he had his suspicions. It was most likely the violent Fletcher boy who terrorised Black-Hollow’s children alongside his bullying cronies. However, Godric would not have been surprised to learn that Father Thomas had influenced the attack. Fortunately, Godric had escaped the incident with nothing more than a bloodied and bruised scalp and an increasingly prevalent fear which crippled the young boy's heart.

However, the incident was the final straw for Siward. The old warrior had served Godric's grandfather, and his fearsome reputation as a formidable fighter had not dulled with the onset of old age. Once he had stumbled upon Godric’s unconscious body, he had stormed to Sir Edmund’s chamber and demanded entry. No one witnessed what followed, but Sir Edmund finally returned to the world afterwards. His household was called into his hall, where he declared Godric to be his heir so that any attack on him, despite his peculiarities, would now be deemed an attack on Sir Edmund himself. 

Life slowly returned to normality, although Black-Hollow remained a cold and gloomy place. Godric's position as heir to the manor gave him a safeguard against future attack, although he was still feared by Black-Hollow's inhabitants and other than ordering Godric to begin the duties and training expected of a knight's page, his father continued to ignore him. As time passed Godric managed to acquire a little control over his outbursts; to the extent that he now believed he'd finally put a stop to the strange happenings which haunted him.

Upon reaching Westminster, Godric's father had been summoned into the new King's presence and Godric had been left to his own devices once they had reached the royal palace. 

‘Don’t wander off,' he had told him sternly, before leaving him alone in an intimidating environment. That had been over an hour earlier, and Sir Edmund had yet to reappear. Sighing, Godric leaned against a wall and waited in sullen silence. Merry shouts rose nearby and the sharp sound of steel upon steel rang out. Hiding a yawn, Godric gazed in their direction to find a group of youths assembled together, most likely the squires of rich and powerful magnates. The group of boys were friends, as they laughed and joked together. Two were dressed in padded gambesons and carried swords, their edges of the blades blunted to avoid severe injury. Godric felt a pang of loneliness at the sight. No companion of a similar age existed in Black-Hollow's bleak halls; no one who could offer friendly companionship to a boy who desperately needed it. The camaraderie exhibited by the squires was an alien concept to Godric.

The two boys paused to acknowledge each other before they sprang forward and traded more blows. This was a mock bout to test their skill, and the presence of so many powerful magnates may potentially lead to a future patron, or even royal favour if they were fortunate. The sport was already luring a crowd, as many men paused in their duties to cast a critical eye on the sparring youths. However, what appeared amateurish to older and experienced eyes was dazzling to an impressionable eleven-year-old like Godric.  


Godric was not ignorant in his knowledge of war. Over the last few years, his father had demanded that the boy should be tutored in horsemanship and swordplay, and Siward was charged with teaching him the basics of how to wield a sword and lance. Yet, Godric remained physically weak and undersized, and his confidence was practically non-existent. He often shied away from contests and hesitated most at the same moment he should strike. It was a constant source of frustration for Siward, and his sharp words and harsh insults served only to drive the boy further into his shell. 

Despite this, as time slowly passed the advice which the old warrior drilled into him were slowly engraved into Godric's mind. Siward also sought to teach Godric the wrestling manoeuvres and brawling tactics more suited to wielding an axe than a sword. This was the old warriors preferred weapon of choice, much to Sir Edmund's chagrin, and regardless of Godric always finishing second best, he occasionally displayed the briefest flicker of promise.

Now the old warrior was frequenting the local taverns with his English comrades, released from their duties for enough time to raise a cup of ale to the Old King William’s death. Meanwhile, his father remained in the presence of the man who would soon be crowned king of England, leaving Godric unsupervised. Godric soon found himself amongst the crowd watching the mock bout. Unlike the amusement felt by most of the audience, Godric looked on keenly. The two boys disengaged to collect a welcome breath before swinging into action again, their swords whirling until they clashed together. A few more blows were traded before they sprang away, smiles beaming from reddened faces, each combatant taking a moment to sense an opening in their opponent's defence. The crowd acknowledged the display with applause and as Godric looked around him at the hardened faces of these warlike men, his gaze landed momentarily on a boy standing slightly apart from the crowd.

He was tall and wiry, although he could only be Godric's senior by a year or two. He wore a dark, expensively tailored tunic and a coat-of-arms was emblazoned on his breast. Long, sleek dark hair crowned his regal head. His grey eyes made Godric pause, for unlike most of the crowd they seemed indifferent to the spectacle before him. His narrow features were guarded and seemingly expressionless, although after a moment his age betrayed him, and he was unable to fully hide the mocking disdain that filtered through the indifferent mask. Then suddenly the boy frowned and those grey eyes shifted before laying to rest on Godric. Their eyes locked as Godric felt a chill shiver run down his spine and the hairs rose on the nape of his neck. For a disquieting moment, Godric felt the demon stir. The boy's eyes widened, before Godric broke the connection, quickly turning his attention back to the mock fight before him. He could feel the boy's gaze still on him as Godric internally wrestled with the demon, attempting with difficulty to subdue it and regain control. The man beside Godric shifted uncomfortably.

Godric breathed deeply and with one last internal wrench managed to thrust the demon back. He could still sense its presence, lurking in the shadows of his soul, biding its time and waiting for the chance to unleash its power. Godric glanced back to where he'd last seen the boy. He was still there, although the look he levelled at Godric was now curious rather than baleful. Unnerved by the intense scrutiny, he had the sudden urge to flee the compound and disobey his father's commands. He would return to their camp and await his father's displeasure there, or maybe chance the bawdy atmosphere of the local taverns in search of Siward.

Godric gulped. Summoning his meagre courage, he slipped through the crowded ranks of noblemen around him. Darting towards the gates, he chanced another look at the boy, who was now keenly following his progress and had started towards him hurriedly. Panic gripped him. His father had explicitly told him not to draw attention to himself or exhibit any signs of the malevolent spirit lurking within him. He could imagine his father's reaction to this revelation and the pain that usually accompanied his father's displeasure. With his mind solely fixed on this, Godric failed to see a figure standing casually in front of him and who suddenly impeded his progress as Godric barrelled straight into him.  


Godric grunted painfully as he collided with the man's hip, falling back heavily. The man spluttered at the sudden impact and whilst Godric's size wasn't enough to unbalance him, it spilled the contents of the flagon of wine all over his expensive tunic. The man's companions stepped away quickly to avoid the wine before gaping in surprise at their drenched friend, although an astonished chuckle escaped some at the sight.

'What the fuck…' the man growled angrily. Godric, unhurt from the collision, rushed to his feet in a frenzied attempt to escape, but one look at the man before him caused a wave of fear and uncertainty to overwhelm him. His feet seemed to turn to stone. The man was huge, both tall and broad, whilst his powerfully built frame and once expensive robes confirmed his knightly status. Eyes the colour of cold steel turned and focused on Godric, narrowing into a scowl.

'You little bastard!' He hissed from behind clenched teeth. The towering figure's face was reddening in rage, a stark contrast to Godric's increasingly pale complexion.

'I'm sorry…' Godric attempted to stutter as the man stepped threateningly towards him.

'You've made me look like a fool, little puppy dog!' the man said coldly, looming over the unfortunate boy. Again, Godric attempted to apologise, but was suddenly shoved back with such force that it almost flung him from his feet. Stumbling back, Godric looked around frantically, searching for potential allies. The sparring youths had paused at the first signs of commotion, and now the crowd, starved of spectacle, were staring in his direction. Some watched on pityingly, whilst others even smiled darkly in anticipation. Most looked grim, although no one stepped forward to defend him.

Another shove sent him sprawling. Godric was quivering with fear as he scrambled to his feet again, staring desperately at his assailant.

'Do you seek to dishonour the House of Bellême?' The man snarled, his tone dangerous. Godric stared at him in confusion; the name alien to him. The boy's utter bemusement at the declaration appeared to anger the man further.

'I'm sorry,' he spluttered, 'It was an acci…' 

The apology was cut short when a hand shot out and struck him hard across the face. Godric's mind exploded, and when his vision cleared he was once again sprawled upon the ground, his head pounding from the blow. His attacker was standing over him, staring balefully down.

'Do you know who I am, little runt?' Godric simply shook his head, his mind whirling. He heard a growl, then a hardened boot connected with his stomach and sent him rolling away in agony as he desperately gasped for breath. Winded, Godric glanced about him, hoping to find at least one erstwhile ally who would feel enough pity and courage to stop his opponent's onslaught. Once again, he found no one willing to intervene on his behalf. He did see the strange boy who encouraged his flight looking on with growing concern. Then suddenly Godric's gaze landed on his father, who had just emerged from the palace wearing a rare smile. Hope stirred in him as his father paused, paling considerably upon recognising the beaten boy and the ghost of a smile vanished immediately. Edmund instinctively took a hesitant step forward, and then stopped, his face hardening. 

Godric's hope died instantly. If his father was hesitant to intervene and acknowledge that Godric was his son and heir, then no one would. A stray tear whelmed and began to fall as a wave of fear and humiliation washed over the young boy. Yet, anger was there as well, a rage fuelled by the desperation of his circumstance. The demon within him raised its head and growled, sensing an opportunity. A shadow descended on Godric, and he turned to find Bellême standing over him, his fists clenched, and his face contorted in contempt.

'Look how the little puppy weeps,' he spat in disgust, 'you are nothing but a piece of shit beneath my boots. You have made me look a fool. Kiss my boot in apology and acknowledge that you are beneath me, and then run along to the bitch that whelped you before I send you back to her in pieces.' Godric's eyes narrowed, the demon struggling against its weakening constraints. He was furious at the mention of his mother. Rising unsteadily to his feet, Godric's eyes met Bellême's, and for the first time in his short life, his expression displayed defiance. A potent tempest of emotions battled within him, all fighting for control. However, rage emerged the victor and Godric spat out a mixture of bloodied saliva from his mouth; directly onto the boot Bellême had instructed him to shamefully kiss.

There was a sudden intake of breath from those surrounding them. Even Bellême's cohorts appeared stunned by this act of misplaced bravado, for they had just witnessed a boy do what no man there would dare to do. For the briefest moment Bellême's face contorted, twisting violently before becoming as cold as stone; the face of a killer. Godric saw the flash of a short blade being unsheathed; an arm being brought back and flung forwards with murderous intent. He moved to avoid it, an instinct drilled into him by Siward's stern tutorship. He was slow; far too slow. He knew that it was too late to avoid the blade being thrust towards him. Godric's eyes closed, waiting for the dagger to be plunged into his body. But at the moment of impact, the internal restraints Godric had imposed upon his demon finally unravelled. Untethered, unrestrained and now suddenly rampant, it roared to life and surged forwards with undiluted glee.

'No,' Godric cried and flung out a hand as the knife came within a whisper of his body, embracing the sudden surge of power that ran unchecked through his body. It had built up over years of abuse and now it was unleashed. The demon obeyed him in delight, surging from his outstretched hand in a torrent of colour. A gust of wind swirled around them, before it barrelled into his assailant. Godric saw Bellême register what was happening, but his astonishment hindered his reactions and he was sent stumbling backwards until he sprawled in the mud. 

Godric was unsteady on his feet, his ears ringing as he suddenly felt terribly drained. He found his audience gaping at him in stunned silence, the greatest magnates and clerics of the realm watching on in shock. In his weary state, Godric summoned the courage to spare his father a glance. Edmund's face was deathly pale, although his eyes betrayed the tempest of rage he was struggling to contain.

The scrape of a sword being freed from a scabbard drew Godric's attention away from his father. Bellême was now standing, a drawn sword gleaming in his hand and, more oddly, a long stick held threateningly in the other. A group of men, obviously loyal to Bellême, were now at his back and glaring at the small boy menacingly.

'I'll geld you,' he breathed slowly, choking on his wrath and starting forward with murderous intent, 'I'll cut off your balls for that.’ Godric stumbled hastily away, his exhausted limbs immediately rebelling. Bellême reached him in two long strides, the sword rising and the stick crackling with power. The crowd murmured in excitement, sensing blood sport and to which there was no escape.

A loud voice rang out before the sword could begin its murderous descent,

'Enough!'

Godric's eyes sprang open, having closed them in anticipation of Bellême's killing blow. His assailant paused and Godric, hesitant to take his eyes off the blade hovering over him, quickly glanced at his rescuer to find the strange boy striding confidently through the crowd towards them. Upon reaching them, the boy came to an elegant halt, purposefully standing between Bellême and Godric. He bowed courteously to the older man,

'Sir Robert of Bellême,' he said, 'I apologise for intervening, but I believe there's been a misunderstanding.'

'Get out of my way,' Bellême warned him, the tip of the stick in his left-hand crackling menacingly. The boy ignored it, seemingly unmoved by the threat.

'I'm afraid I cannot.'

'If you don't move, I'll gut you before I deal with that miserable little shit. Now move!'

'I don't think any more blood needs to be spilt today,' replied the boy, his tone remaining respectful. Bellême let out a primal growl and stepped forward so that his great size towered over the two boys.

'Do you realise who you're speaking to boy?'

'Well, it's rather obvious,' the boy said smoothly, 'you're a famous and recognisable man, Sir Robert.'.

'If you recognise me,’ Bellême said, his eyes narrowing, ‘then you know that I will not be denied my revenge.'

'Revenge?' the boy exclaimed, somehow finding the confidence to laugh, 'this isn't some barbaric feud, Sir Robert. From my vantage point, it appeared to be nothing more than an unfortunate accident committed by a foolish boy.' Bellême's sword hand twitched,

'I demand blood,' the knight snarled furiously. His comrades stepped forwards, ready to intercede on their lord's behalf. To Godric's astonishment, his erstwhile saviour refused to back down. He merely smiled confidently at the forceful display,

'Not his blood,' the boy replied calmly, 'he's under my master's protection!' 

'Who…' a frowning Bellême asked before his eyes flashed down, for the first time noticing the coat-of-arms emblazoned on the strange boy's breast. He stilled, his eyes narrowing in barely contained rage. For the briefest of moments, it seemed Bellême thought that revenge may be worth the risk and the stick in his hand sparked ominously. The boy's smile widened,

'Even an idiot wouldn't be foolish enough to insult one of the most dangerous men in the kingdom,’ he said, ‘especially not one with your unique tastes.'

'That may be,' Bellême said harshly, 'but an attack on me will not go unpunished.' 

Bellême suddenly moved and the stick in his hand rose up until it pointed at a cowering Godric from over the strange boy's shoulder. There was a flash and Godric felt a sharp sting as something hot grazed his cheek. He stumbled back, yelping painfully. But at the same moment and lost in the clamour rising around them, came a distinct hiss, followed by a surprised cry of pain. The sinister smile which had fleetingly flashed across Bellême's face disappeared as he began to hop on one leg, his sword clattering to the ground as he clutched at his foot. In the disarray, Godric was certain he saw a creature which resembled a small snake slither beneath the feet of the watching crowd until it vanished. Suddenly the crowd was laughing, roaring at the sight of the infamous Bellême prancing about in agony. None more so than the man who had just stepped out of the palace to investigate the commotion. Built like a natural soldier and garbed flamboyantly, his ruddy face was beaming at Bellême's antics and his booming laugh echoed across the courtyard. A satisfied grin flickered at the strange boy's lips,

'That was ill-advised, Sir Robert,' he muttered, a touch of disdain in his voice. Bellême's followers scowled at the boy's arrogance, and hands dropped to their sword hilts, suddenly threatening further violence. But Bellême barked out a swift command which brought his followers to a swift halt. Limping slightly, Bellême stood tall and ignored the agony seething through his foot, his face contorted with pain and anger.

'You'll regret the enemy you made today,' he promised the boy before his attention turned to Godric, who stood quivering at his saviour's back, a hand clasped to his cheek to stem the blood streaming from the wound.

'To whom does this runt belong?' he spat loudly. For a moment no one stepped forward, until the grim Sir Edmund strode into the clearing.

'He's my son,' Sir Edmund growled reluctantly, his face flushing in humiliation at the admission. The two men glared at one another before Bellême laughed aloud.

'I shouldn't be surprised,' he said in contempt, 'should've guessed he was mongrel born. I suppose this cowardice is due to his Saxon blood?' Edmund didn't reply, but his body quivered with barely suppressed rage. After a moment, Bellême spat and pointed a finger at the strange boy who had just saved Godric's life.

'I swear this doesn't end here Slytherin!' he promised darkly before turning and striding away, unable to hide the pain caused by his injury. His companions followed him, although one paused to pick up his lord's fallen sword, taking a moment to stare ominously at the two boys. At Bellême's departure, the ruddy-faced man who had laughed uproariously at Bellême's misfortune shook his head in amusement, before clapping his hands and returning to the palace. The crowd quickly followed suit, keeping their distance from the three figures stood unmoving in the centre of the courtyard. The strange boy released a deep breath,

'I'm going to regret this,' he mumbled with a shudder. He turned to face Godric, staring at him curiously, 'you owe me my friend!' Godric didn't reply. He wasn't even listening. His eyes were fixed on his father, who now stared down at the boy with his nostrils flaring and pure fury blazing behind his eyes. Without wasting a moment, his father grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and wrenched him roughly from the courtyard. Slytherin watched them go in concern, thinking that no good would come from the threatening look Sir Edmund had just given his son.

Godric barely remembered the next hour of his life. His father dragged him roughly back to the tent they'd set up in the fields surrounding Westminster. Edmund could barely contain his rage as he dismissed the few men of his retinue who still lingered nearby. What followed was the worst beating Godric had suffered at his father's hand. He was struck to the ground again and again, his small body crumpling each time a fist or foot made contact. Yet, his father did not relent, not even when Godric's blood was splattered across the ground at his feet. Each punch was interjected with a roar as he flung insults and curses which punctuated the boy's consciousness. 

‘Devil,’ his father finally spat hoarsely, which was the worst insult of them all, for it hurt more than all the blows combined, ‘you’re no son of mine.’

Godric neither said a word nor tried to defend himself. He was exhausted from the demon's brief escape and so took the beating silently, even as his father's fist bloodied his face and broke his ribs. All he could think of was the shame and humiliation he'd felt as he'd watched his father standing idly by as Bellême attempted to kill him.

He was slumped on the ground when a sudden, deafening crack exploded from the tents opening. His father jumped back, shook from the blind rage which had consumed him. Breathing heavily, he spun quickly and appeared to be ready to launch himself at whoever had intruded upon them. A tall figure stood at the tent's entrance. Through his hazy and bloodied vision, Godric saw the figure of a man standing there, tall enough to look down at his father. Golden hair peppered with grey crowned his head and his eyes were cold as they took in the scene before him. The only hint of distaste at the sight of Godric laying in his own blood was a slight twitch of his sword hand. 

Yet, there was more to this strange man than met the eye. He appeared to radiate an aura so forceful that Sir Edmund unwillingly took a step backwards, his hand seeking the comfort of a sword which was no there. The air was balanced upon a knife edge as the two men sized each other up.

'Salazar,' the stranger said in a calm, clear voice. From behind the man stepped the boy who had rescued Godric from Bellême's malice. He couldn't hide the appalled look which crossed his face at the sight of Godric. Godric smiled faintly through broken lips, but didn't respond.

'Salazar,' the tall stranger spoke again, his gaze never leaving Sir Edmund's, 'take the boy to my quarters.' Salazar nodded and took a step forward, only to find his path barred by Godric's father.

'I don't think so boy!' Sir Edmund snarled, before returning his attention to the other man, 'you're not taking him anywhere; you're not welcome here.'

'Edmund,' the newcomer replied, 'it's been many years since we last met, and I'm well aware that our relationship is fraught. But I will not leave my sister's son in your hands.'

'Leave us,' Sir Edmund attempted to command.

'No.'

'He's my son. It is my right to punish him as I see fit…'

'Just like it was your right to punish Alys?' replied the tall man and a briefest trace of anger breached his calm demeanour, 'Besides, punish him for what? For showing courage when facing one of the most dangerous men in the kingdom? For displaying bravery where most men would cower? For being a wizard? For not being William?' 

Sir Edmund paled, and he looked like he was ready to leap at the intruder and tear him apart. The tall man seemed unfazed by the immediate threat. He simply gestured at the boy,

'Salazar, take him…' Salazar hesitated, glancing at Edmund, who still seemed prepared to launch himself at the newcomer.

'And you Lord Alain?'

'I'll follow soon enough,' he said calmly, 'this meeting is long overdue. I have much to discuss with my brother-in-law.' Salazar hesitated a moment longer, clearly unhappy about leaving his master in the presence of an enraged nobleman. He was still stunned at the knowledge that Lord Alain had a nephew, let alone one of wizarding blood. However, his wits returned quickly enough, and he rushed to Godric's side and delicately heaved the boy into a standing position. He stumbled a little as he adjusted to the younger boy's weight to support him. This time, Edmund didn't attempt to intervene. Instead, he simply glared at his brother-in-law.

'Do you think I'm going to leave the boy in your hands,' his father growled as Salazar led Godric out of the tent, 'I will not let the hands of a depraved wizard taint the boy further!' Despite Sir Edmund’s accusations, the tall man appeared to have the patience of a saint and refused to rise to Edmund's insults. His voice remained calm as he stared his brother-in-law down.

'Peace, and let me speak…' Godric heard no more. The bleak sunlight almost blinded him, and his mind swam. He was faintly aware of his father's retinue staring in shock at Godric's battered appearance as they passed, but he no longer cared. There was little he cared about in that moment.

Time barely seemed to pass as Salazar led Godric to Westminster's palace and through a labyrinth of bustling, torch-lit halls. Godric paid no heed to his surroundings until Salazar hoisted him through a doorway and into a dimly lit room, crowded with bedding and personal trinkets. They'd barely stepped inside when a gruff voice spoke from the gloom behind the doorway,

'What news do you bring, Salazar?' With an effort, Godric raised his head. A large man sat with his back against the nearest wall. He radiated the same calmness as Siward, the confidence of a man who could handle himself in a fight. A great broadsword lay across his lap as a testament to this fact, the man tenderly running a whetstone down the blades length to sharpen it. It looked like he expected trouble and was ready to deal with it. Salazar breathed a sigh of relief,

'Thank Merlin, Hugh!' he said, 'I half-expected one of Bellême's dogs to be waiting in the dark.'

'His dogs are out in force,' confirmed Hugh casually, 'but so are Lord Alain's. What news?'

'Lord Alain has ordered me to bring his nephew here, where he is to remain with us for the time being.' Hugh nodded,

'Is this the boy?' Godric glanced up at the man. For a moment, their eyes met and held, before Godric dropped his gaze, intimidated by the older man's baleful glare.

'I believe so. Although it's hard to tell under all the blood and bruises. A little longer in his father's company and we'd be tending to a corpse.' Salazar's tone conveyed how appalled he was. Godric merely shuddered slightly at the blunt words. The impenetrable Hugh said nothing, simply gesturing at a pile of furs and rugs in the corner of the room. Understanding the older man's unspoken command, Salazar led Godric in that direction until the sound of running feet echoed close by. For a sickening moment everything stilled; Salazar stopped moving and even Hugh paused, his hand on his sword hilt as the sound grew louder.

Then from the hall’s gloom leapt a young boy. He had wiry brown hair and appeared to be a similar age to Godric and Salazar. He obviously meant no ill, for his grin reached from ear to ear and he practically bounced across the chamber when he caught sight of Salazar. Half consumed by the shadows, Hugh silently shook his head and returned to sharpening his sword.

'Salazar, what's this I keep hearing about you facing down Bellême. You’ve been lying to the serving maids haven’t you? It can’t have been you, you don’t have the stones! '

'Bugger off Hamon,' replied Salazar exasperatedly, although he couldn't fight his growing smirk. The boy, Hamon, laughed at his reaction before seemingly noticing Godric for the first time. He looked at him curiously, taking in the boy's battered, bruised and exhausted appearance.

'Who's this?'

'Godric of Black-Hollow,' replied Salazar, 'Lord Alain's nephew.' 

'Lord Alain has a nephew?' Hamon blurted out, looking shocked.

'Looks like it,' Salazar grinned, 'a nephew who incidentally put Bellême on his arse!' 

Hamon gaped. Even the taciturn Hugh paused mid-stroke at the tale. Godric barely heard. His body ached and his head rang with a dull, pulsating pain. Then Hamon laughed uproariously and slapped Godric softly on the back, causing the latter to wince in discomfort.

'That's bloody brilliant!' Hamon beamed, before looking at Salazar questioningly, 'Is he a wizard?'

'Lord Alain believes so,' the boy confirmed, 'and I sensed it moments before he used magic to throw Bellême back. It's the only way someone his size could topple a bastard like him.' Hamon nodded in understanding, before gesturing at Godric's wounds.

'Did Bellême do this to him?'

'Partially! The rest was his father,' Hamon's eye's widened.

'His father?'

'Yes, we interrupted halfway through a demonstration of his father's discipline,' Salazar sighed, 'Lord Alain's still with him. He told me to bring Godric here and make sure he was taken care of. Personally, I hope he…'

'Boys!' Both teens turned to see Hugh observing them sternly, 'that's enough.'

'But father…' Hamon attempted to interject.

'It is Lord Alain's business, not ours. Now instead of gossiping like a couple of little maids, why don't you find the boy a bed and tend to his wounds before he collapses at your feet…' 

Godric suddenly swayed where he stood. He was exhausted, in pain and utterly confused by all this talk of wizards. He barely heard the two boys curse as he collapsed to the ground. Godric finally welcomed the merciful wave of unconsciousness that rushed to meet him as everything disappeared into a black void.


	3. Raven

Night had fallen by the time Godric stirred from his unconscious slumber. He immediately regretted it. His body ached, and every slight shift caused sore muscles to scream in rebellion. Stiff, tired and with every limb throbbing in pain, Godric laid back and sighed quietly. Disjointed memories flooded his mind; his beating from the devilish knight; his father's fury and the feeling of his bleeding and broken body being pummelled repeatedly by the man who had sired him. Talk of wizards peppered his memory and he could hazily remember a tall man and a young boy rescuing him. Strangely, he didn't feel the wave of emotion he'd anticipated. Rather, he felt oddly empty, as if he couldn't muster the effort to contemplate his father's actions. It was a stark contrast to the onslaught of tears which had followed previous beatings he'd suffered.

A muted moan shook him from his stupor. Surprised, Godric peered into the gloom as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. He was at the edge of a large room, packed with personal belongings and small straw beds. It didn't take him long to realise that the source of the noise came from the chamber's far side. Two squirming bodies were nestled under the privacy of a large blanket and judging by the sounds they were making, they were revelling in their intimacy. A woman was coaxing her lover with commands that made Godric blush. 

Now scarlet-faced, Godric felt his stomach rumble. Hunger pierced his fatigue and he realised that he hadn't eaten since his arrival at Westminster. Summoning the courage to move despite the protests from his aching limbs, he silently rose to his feet. Stiff but pleasantly surprised at the lack of pain he felt, he shifted soundlessly towards the door, the man's eager response to his lover's cries swiftly encouraging his flight. The door creaked slightly when opened, but not enough to distract the lovers from their pleasure and Godric crept away unnoticed.

The corridor was dimly lit by torches. As Godric wandered further from the chamber he noticed the heavy tapestries which adorned the stone walls, telling tales of ancient legends and fantastic beasts. Moving aimlessly on, he began to hear the echo of bawdy songs and loud shouts. Godric hesitated, realising that the sounds must be originating from the great hall.

'How long have I slept for?' Godric pondered quietly, frowning in confusion.

Wanting to remain unseen, he turned away from the festivities and followed the aromas wafting through the halls and corridors. His stomach was growling by the time he reached the kitchens. He approached the kitchens cautiously to avoid any servants who still lingered there. When he arrived, Godric was shocked to discover that the great cooking fires had long since died, although the warmth and scent of rich foods remained.

Creeping warily into the large room, Godric cast a quick eye over the surrounding tables. They were covered in dirty plates, dishevelled baskets and drained flagons from the festivities. Spices and herbs lay scattered amongst the chaos, along with, to Godric's joy, scraps of rich meats, cooked vegetables and mouth-watering fruits. Godric's stomach leaped at the sight. He practically skipped towards the table and was just about to reach them when he heard a soft growl. He stopped instantly, eyes wide, and turned slowly to find a large hound dozing in the kitchen's corner, chewed greasy bones scattered around it. Godric let out a deep breath of relief. The hound's eyes were closed as it slumbered in the kitchen's lingering warmth.

Godric crept closer to the table, arms outstretched towards the meagre but scintillating sight. He was just about to seize his prize when the sound of heavy footsteps resonated from the nearby hallway.

Godric panicked, quickly hiding behind another large bench just in time to avoid a bustling servant, who entered the kitchens with his arms laden with used plates. Godric's gaze lingered hungrily on the dishes as the servant hastily discarded them on a cluttered workbench. However, to Godric's despair, the servant remained in the kitchen to hurriedly prepare more food for the celebrations. Obviously, someone of high importance, perhaps the newly crowned King himself, had demanded a late-night meal.

With his mind racing, Godric failed to notice the figure lurking half-hidden in the shadows until she shifted noisily in discomfort. He spun around quickly to find a pair of dark blue eyes staring back at him from the dark. They belonged to a scrawny, raven-haired young girl, who instantly began giggling quietly at his stunned expression. Before he could react, she raised a finger to her lips, signalling for him to remain silent. Godric could only nod dumbly.

The girl paused briefly, reassuring herself that the servant's attention was solely on the meal he was preparing. Then slowly she stretched out her hand, the palm facing the pile of leftover foods on the nearest table where an apple sat untouched. Godric frowned, wondering what her intentions were, for she was too far away to physically reach the delicately perched apple. She glanced at him and flashed a devilish smile in his direction. Then suddenly, with a whoosh of air, the apple was in her hand.

Godric's mouth dropped open in disbelief. Were his eyes deceiving him? The girl grinned as she took a large bite out of the apple, before quickly tossing it the small distance between them to where a completely unprepared Godric still sat gaping. He didn't even attempt to catch it and with a painful thump, the apple hit him in the head, eliciting another fit of silent giggles from his companion. Godric's mind cleared as he shook it, then picked up the fruit and eyed it speculatively, as if determining whether the apple had somehow become corrupted. Who was this girl? Godric glanced at her, then at the fruit as she urged him to eat the apple, a suggestion reinforced by the instantaneous growl which erupted from his stomach.

The succulent apple tasted heavenly as its juices dripped from his lips, but the girl was no longer watching. Instead, she was staring at a large plate filled with scraps of tender meats, roasted vegetables and baked bread. Godric devoured the apple as the girl's eyes narrowed in concentration and once again raised her hand. However, nothing happened, and the plate refused to budge. Frowning, the girl tensed, and her face hardened in determination. The air quivered around her. Suddenly the plate shifted, hovering softly off the wooden surface and drifting steadily towards the two children. The girl trembled, and a bead of sweat dribbled down from her raven crown. Halfway through its journey, the plate shuddered, but the girl's concentration was solely on the task at hand. The servant accidently masked any sound that the two thieves made by loudly humming a bawdy tavern song. To the girl, the slumbering hound and even Godric were forgotten until, with a relieved sigh, the plate dropped soundlessly into her hands.

The girl smiled at her accomplishment, and it widened when she noticed Godric gaping at her in awe. A slight flush coloured her cheeks before she hastily began piling the tasty trinkets into her dress, regardless of the mess that the grease and oils made. She passed Godric half of the plate's contents, who could barely control the urge to pounce on the food. Meanwhile, the girl turned her attention once again to the unmanned kitchen bench where a goblet of half-drunk wine stood. She caught Godric's attention,

'Watch this,' she mouthed, grinning confidently. Godric frowned when he noticed her next target. After the events which had transpired recently, Godric didn't want anything to do with wine. He felt elation transform into a rising dread, but couldn't put a finger on the cause. Then it hit him. The kitchen had descended into silence and the servant had finished preparing his meal. Godric turned and tried to warn the girl, but it was too late. The girl had already raised a hand towards the wine. She caught a flicker of Godric's frantic attempts to catch her attention and glanced at him, breaking her concentration.

With a loud crack, the goblet went shooting off in the opposite direction to where the two children hid. Unfortunately, the servant turned at that precise moment, his arms laden with exquisite dishes and the flying goblet hit him hard in the face. Half-blinded by the wine, he cried out in astonishment. Wiping at his eyes and cursing, the servant looked frantically around before his eyes suddenly landed on Godric's companion, who knelt frozen amidst the chaos. Distracted by his find and with his face swiftly reddening in anger, the servant began to pace towards her.

'Little bitch,' he spat angrily, noticing for the first time the scraps of food wrapped up in the girl's dirty dress, 'thief!'

He charged forwards, so determined to reach her that he failed to see the half-eaten apple soaring through the air until it struck its intended target. A pile of dirty plates and dishes suddenly cascaded to the ground with a resounding crash. Twisting round in fright at the sudden eruption of noise, the servant lost his footing, falling to the ground with a heavy grunt and dropping the vast burden in his laden arms with a resounding crash. The slumbering hound woke with a jolt and began howling and barking madly, adding to the chaos.

Godric and the girl shared a quick glance, the boys hand still outstretched from when he'd launched the apple and instantly reached a silent agreement. Then they were gone, racing out of the kitchen with their arms loaded with spoils. The dazed servant caught a glimpse of two shapes disappearing and shouted for them to stop, but the two children were long gone by the time his wits returned. Picking himself up and rubbing down his food-stained tunic, he began to piece together a new meal, grumbling incessantly about the lack of respect shown by children these days.

The pair of adventurers finally came to a stop when they found a small den in the shadows beneath a stairway, out of sight of the revellers who still feasted nearby. Out of breath from sprinting blindly through the maze of dimly lit corridors, silence fell between them as they looked at each other.

Then the girl was laughing, her cackle echoing off the stone walls. Godric stared at her as if she was mad, but couldn't help the wry smile which flickered at his lips. Soon his gentle laughter joined hers.

'Did you see his face?' asked the girl. She attempted to impersonate the servants face, failed miserably, and then bent forwards again, clutching her stomach as her body trembled with more giggles. Godric didn't trust himself to speak. He was suddenly nervous. He'd never spoken to a girl his age before. Young maids were present in Black-Hollow, but none had ever crossed his path, most likely warned away from him by the fears and suspicions of others. This wild wraith-like girl with her unfamiliar brogue made him feel awkward and slightly ill at ease. The girl soon regained control of her laughter and began picking at the spoils they had pilfered from the palace kitchens.

'Here,' she said after noticing the yearning look Godric was giving the food. She offered him a small smile and he blushed in return, causing her impish grin to widen. They shared their meagre feast in silence. After a while, Godric risked a glance at his companion, only to find her watching him curiously.

'You're very ugly,' she stated innocently, her voice muffled as she wiped away the grease at the corners of her mouth. Godric was sure he looked indignant; he certainly felt it. She'd just insulted him after his quick thinking had allowed her escape from the servant’s clutches.

'Thanks,' he replied, somewhat grumpily. The girl's eyes widened,

'No, I didn't mean,' she said quickly, 'I didn't mean to be rude, it's just that your face is very ill-looking, all bruised and swollen like that' Godric frowned. She probably had a point, he reluctantly mused in silence. After the two beatings he'd suffered recently, he wasn't surprised to discover that he looked battered and ill-kept. He sighed, picking absentmindedly at the remains of his meal.

'Don't worry about it.'

'How did it happen?' the girl blurted inquisitively,

'I had an accident,' he said uncomfortably.

'Must have been quite an accident,' she acknowledged, before finally realising the effect her inquisition was having on her companion. She shrugged, deeming it a private matter he didn’t want to discuss. They slipped into silence again, the girl wary and Godric sullen. However, curiosity soon got the better of Godric's inquisitive nature,

'How did you do that?' he asked her quietly,

'Do what?'

'What you did in the kitchens, to get the food?'

'I just summoned them,' she replied modestly, 'I can’t do much, and it's just a little trick I've learned.'

'It was incredible,' Godric told her earnestly.

'Oh,' the girl said, her cheeks reddening faintly at his praise. They shared a smile.

'How did you do it?'

'I'm not supposed to say,' she asked, suddenly unsure, 'my father made me promise. Why do you want to know?'

'It's just,' Godric shrugged, 'I never thought what you did was possible,'

'I shouldn't have done it,' the girl admitted, 'not in front of you anyway…'

'Do what?' Godric asked, intrigued. The girl hesitated, staring at him piercingly. Godric sensed that she was silently judging whether he was worthy of some untold and forbidden knowledge.

'Magic,’ she finally said. 

'Magic!' Godric exclaimed, gaping at his companion, 'That…that was magic?'

'Yes,' she nodded, giggling at his stunned expression. She bit noisily into a slab of meat tearing greasy scraps off the bone whilst Godric considered this new information. Magic. Magic really existed. He remembered how the girl had performed the strange miracle by summoning the food to her. Was he the same? Was it magic rather than an evil spirit within him? He felt suddenly revitalised by the possibility that he may not be evil after all.

'You should smile more.' Godric was snapped out of his internal musings by the girl’s comment. She was smiling softly at him, before she stuck out her tongue and added cheekily, 'it makes you slightly less ugly.' 

Godric hadn't realised that he was grinning. He simply rolled his eyes, before throwing an apple core at her in response. She gasped, before laughing and shoving him playfully back. His laughter soon joined hers. He felt exuberant, a sensation which had been missing for much of his life. His brother's untimely death had robbed him of any meaningful childhood bond and fear kept the children of Black-Hollow away. As he playfully wrestled with the girl, he revelled in the uncomplicated happiness of youth. Eventually, their game subsided, especially when Godric's bruised and battered body began to protest. They sat in contented silence, their meagre feast finished and forgotten.

'By the way,' she said quietly, watching him, 'thank you.'

'What for?' Godric asked in bemusement,

'For distracting that kitchen servant,' she reminded him, 'I thought I was caught for sure; it was very heroic.' She said it teasingly, almost mockingly, but the slight flush betrayed how grateful she truly was for Godric's recklessness. Soon, it was Godric's turn to blush,

'It was nothing,' he tried to deflect her praise humbly, not used to having it directed his way. The girl shook her head,

'No,' she insisted, 'it wasn't nothing. I'd have been in a lot of trouble if I'd been caught.'

'You'd have got away,' Godric responded naively, 'you can do magic.'

'Magic can only do so much,' the girl told him sagely, rolling her eyes at his ignorance, 'magic couldn't heal my mother and it won't stop my father from betrothing me to the highest bidder…' She hissed this bitterly, before sighing, her eyes suddenly downcast.

'If you hadn't intervened, I'd have been caught…and…and I would have brought great shame to my father.' Godric's eyes widened as the girl's unexpectedly subdued countenance, her thoughts dwelling on other things. He remained silent, unwilling to quench his curiosity. He understood the need for privacy better than anyone.

'My father is a great wizard from the glens in the far north,' she burst out suddenly, glancing at him, 'I'm very proud of my heritage and I love him greatly. But our family is impoverished.' She paused, gesturing with her hand at the filthy dress she wore and her untidy hair. She seemed ashamed of it; the mischievous glint in her eyes gone. Godric immediately missed its presence. 'He's very insistent on regaining our family's honour and wealth. That's why we've come to this coronation. So that my father can find a man to marry me too.' She glanced at Godric, who sat enraptured by her tale.

'Surely you're too young to marry?' The girl smiled at him.

'I'm almost twelve,' she admitted sadly, 'which is old enough to be betrothed. I don't think my father wouldn't marry me off yet, not until I'm fifteen at least. He loves me too dearly and the few years until then are enough time for me to become the greatest witch I can be.' Her passion was clear to see. She seemed to realise it at the same time he did, for she blushed even more in embarrassment. Suddenly the girl stood up, awkwardly dusting off the crumbs and dirty stains that her dress had accumulated.

'It's late. I should be going before my father realises I'm gone.' She began to retreat, before pausing and turning her attention back to Godric with a playful smile, 'Before I leave, what do I call my modest, ill-looking paladin? Tristan or Bedwyr? Perhaps Roland or Cuchulainn?' Godric shook his head,

'Just Godric,' he replied shyly,

'Godric,' she whispered, trying the name before smiling and saying grandly, 'Well my good Sir Godric, I'll bid you farewell'. She winked playfully at him, before scurrying hurriedly away.

'Wait,' Godric yelled, surprising even himself. The girl paused, looking back, 'what do I call you?' The girl seemed to hesitate, contemplating her answer. Then she grinned at him impishly,

'Call me Raven.' She stood still for a few moments longer, before turning down the corridor, dancing all the way and singing a song in the enthralling language of her native glens. Enchanted by the music, Godric stood rooted to the spot; simply content to watch the girl seemingly glide away as she danced. She looked back at him one last time and smiled brightly when she caught him still watching her. Then she was gone, disappearing into the gloomy corridors like an elf or wraith from folklore.

Godric returned to Lord Alain's quarters in a daze, his mind still consumed with thoughts of the girl dancing and singing as she disappeared into the darkness. He was unaware of how he reached his destination, for all he could think of was that impish smile. The chamber was quiet, the throes of passion which had greeted Godric earlier having long since ended. Now sleeping figures lay strewn across the room and a heavy stench of stale alcohol lingered in the air. Godric paused at the entrance before bravely stalking inside, hoping that he wouldn't disturb any of the figures dozing drunkenly in the dark. He'd barely stepped forwards when a soft cough broke the silence, alerting Godric to a foreign presence. Twisting around, Godric found a tall man standing in the shadows of the door and instantly recognised him as the stranger who had confronted his father about the brutal beating. This was the infamous Lord Alain of Avalon. Alain greeted Godric with a warm smile, before gesturing towards a small door to the side of the chamber.

'Follow me,' he told Godric gently, 'we can speak plainly there.' Godric nodded and shuffled into his uncle's private chamber. With a swish of his robes, Alain followed and swiftly closed the door soundlessly with a flick of an odd wooden stick which had suddenly materialised in his hand. Godric, having already seen magic being performed in such a manner, barely flinched at the display. However, his eyes did widen when Alain effortlessly conjured two cushioned chairs, both flamboyantly coloured and comforted with pillows, an opulent decoration in contrast with the rather spartan quarters. Once Godric was seated, Alain summoned a small table, which drifted over slowly before being placed beside them. It was adorned with a small feast and two goblets of scented wine.

'I thought you might be hungry,' he told him, 'but I suspect your appetite has already been satisfied after your exploits in the kitchens.' Godric baulked and looked worriedly at the man before him. He was shocked that he had been caught. Did Alain know what transpired in the kitchens? Judging by the knowing look he was sending Godric, he surely suspected.

'How did you know?' stuttered Godric. Alain chuckled quietly, although he looked strangely apologetic.

'I'm sorry for intruding on your privacy,' he admitted, 'but I saw it as a necessity to place a tracking charm on you, to determine your whereabouts if you awoke in a particularly adventurous mood and to guarantee your survival.'

'A tracking charm?' Godric gasped, nonplussed.

'It's a magical spell which enables me to know of your whereabouts. There is no reason to fear, as it leaves no lasting marks and I have already removed the enchantment. I simply deemed it necessary, especially in the present climate. There are dangerous men who would like to see you dead, Godric. This coronation may have afforded them the perfect opportunity whilst I was distracted by my duties to the new King.' 

'Is the coronation over?' Godric asked in surprise,

'Yes, although the festivities will likely continue throughout the night.' Godric nodded, unable to keep his disappointment from showing. He'd missed the King's coronation. Alain studied him in silence before Godric finally dared to meet his gaze. Alain had greying fair hair, but still looked remarkably youthful despite being middle-aged. Startling blue eyes twinkled in the firelight.

'Tell me Godric, do you know who I am?' Godric nodded slowly, 'Good. I am Lord Alain of Avalon, Grand-Sorcerer and loyal advisor to the King of England, as I was to his father before him. Did you also know that I am your uncle?'

Again, Godric nodded warily. This was the first time in his short life that he had ever met his mysterious uncle. He remembered that Lord Alain’s name had been mentioned on passing occasions throughout his life, although it was often accompanied by a curse unless spoken by his mother. Alain nodded in satisfaction,

'Excellent, that will make things easier,' he acknowledged, 'Sadly I didn't know your mother well, even though we shared a father. She was only a small child when I was apprenticed to my master. As a child, Alys was a sweet little thing and from what I hear, she became a remarkable woman. I attended her wedding, but that was years before your birth. I was truly saddened to learn of her death and even more aggrieved to hear about your brother. It was cruel for your brother to be killed so soon after.' 

Godric sat silently in the face of his uncle's compassion. He hated to be reminded of that time; of the losses he still felt so keenly. Something stirred in him and Godric recalled that his uncle had been absent at his mother's funeral.

'Why weren't you there?' He said accusingly. Alain frowned but seemed to understand what drove Godric to refer to his absence.

'I had no choice,' he admitted soberly, 'your father wouldn't allow it and I did not wish to stir up an old and bitter argument, especially over my sister's grave. So, I respected Edmund's wishes and stayed away. It was the same with your brother. Our paths never crossed at court, although I remember that the Old King spoke well of him.' Godric continued to sit in silence, although his uncle sounded sincere enough.

'But we'll speak of your father later,' Alain continued, 'We have more important matters to discuss. Firstly, do you know what you are?' Godric simply stared blankly back, 'or put more simply, have you realised that you can do certain things; things that others cannot do?' 

Godric considered his answer. Harsh beatings at his father's hands had engrained the demand for secrecy deep within him. However, those violent displays differed significantly from Alain's gentle inquisition.

'Yes!'

'Do you understand your abilities?' Godric shook his head,

'Our local priest said that it was a sign that an evil spirit or demon lived in me,' He was suddenly interrupted by a bark of laughter from Alain. 

'That does not surprise me,' he said, shaking his head with a wry smile, 'tensions between wizards and the Church are commonplace. They consider us pagans, evil-doers and fear our magic. In return, wizards treat religion with contempt and disdain, seeing it as a blight on society and a haven for prejudice and violence. However, do not let past experiences cloud your open mind. Not all priests feel this way and you may meet more than one wizard who is intrigued by the idea of religion and worship many Muggle gods fervently.'  


Godric listened intently to Alain. He truly despised Father Thomas, a man who had tormented him since that fateful day when he was six years old. Only time would tell if Godric would heed his uncle's wise counsel.

'The truth, Godric, is that you are a wizard.' Godric stilled and his breath seemed to stop. A wizard? He had long suspected he was different from others, but to believe that the sickly, unwanted second son of a minor nobleman was in fact a wizard was beyond belief. He wanted to be knight; to wield a sword and ride a fine warhorse. To discover that he was a wizard shattered his childhood dreams.

'That's not possible,' Godric finally breathed. Alain smiled patiently,

'Oh, it is Godric. You do not harbour evil within you. It is magic which flows in your blood; strongly too if judged by your recent magical feats. You have been denied knowledge of the world you belong to for far too long. The Otherworld of secrecy and sorcery. You, my nephew, are a wizard!' 

Godric sat in silence, barely able to conceive what he was hearing. Magic. He could do magic. The image of a young girl summoning food shot through his mind.

'All this time,' he stuttered, his emotions in turmoil, 'all this time, it's been magic?' Alain nodded, smiling warmly at his young nephew.

'Welcome to the world of magic, Godric,' he said, 'As a young wizard, you will need to be trained. I will complete this task. From this night on, you will be joining my household as my apprentice and squire. I will seek to teach you the laws and skills which govern the use of magic, as well as all you need to know to survive in our world. In return, you will remain loyal to me…'

'I want to be a knight!' Godric blurted out abruptly. Alain raised an eyebrow in surprise, but his easy smile soon widened,

'It is not uncommon,' said Alain thoughtfully, 'for wizards to adopt the ways of Muggle knights.'

'Muggle?' asked Godric in confusion, unfamiliar with the term.

'It's what we call non-wizards,' Alain explained patiently. He gestured with his hands towards the chamber's bed and when Godric turned, he noticed a large broadsword resting there, 'as you can see, I have some skill with a sword. It is useful for a wizard to have more than one trick up his sleeves. Magical knights are called Fae-knights and can fight with both magic and Muggle weapons, as well as holding a powerful status in the Muggle realms. It will take time to accomplish this, but if you are motivated, dedicated and serve me well, then I see no reason to deter you from this ambition.' 

For the first time, Godric returned his uncle's smile. A Fae-knight. His childhood dreams were still a tantalising possibility. However, reality soon came crashing down.

'What about my father?' Godric asked, watching Alain's features darken slightly, ‘he will never allow it.’

‘I have taken it upon myself to remove you from your father’s reach. I fear that if my squire Salazar hadn't alerted me to the danger Edmund posed to you, then it would be too late, and we wouldn't be having this conversation.' Godric nodded. From what he could hazily recollect, his father was uncompromising in his fury and would have continued his brutal beating until Godric was dead. It was a hardship to accept, but Alain spoke a stark and tragic truth.

'Besides,' Alain continued, 'in his generosity, the new King has deemed Edmunds’s loyalty to his father worthy of reward. He is to marry again; a young Norman woman called Eleanor le Broc. She is a ward of the King and he has seen fit to provide her with a fitting dowry. It is a generous offer, one in which your father was keen to accept.' 

This news surprised Godric. His father was no longer a young man, nor had he reached his dotage. However, it could be said that he was past his prime. To discover that he would have a new mother-in-law stunned Godric and he couldn't dispel the rising resentment at his mother being replaced, although he did feel a flutter of pity for the young woman whose duty it would be to please his ill-tempered father.

'So, what does he want from me?’ Godric finally muttered, ‘Why did he let you take me? He hates you.’

'I will not insult your intelligence Godric. Your father hopes to sire a new heir to replace you. Edmund is an uncompromising man and whilst it did not come to blows between us, I was forced to remind him that it was I who had a hand in influencing the King's judgement, especially regarding his recent success. Whilst you are fostered in my household, you will remain the heir to Black-Hollow for as long as Lady Eleanor doesn’t give birth to another son. Only time will tell, and I'll try everything in my power to ensure that you become your own man. You will have to work hard to achieve your ambitions Godric, but I sense great potential in you.' 

Alain spoke evenly and with complete certainty. Godric flushed at his uncle's encouragement.

'It is late,' said Alain suddenly, clapping his hands together, 'and we have a demanding day ahead of us. Although you have already slept for an age, you are still recovering from your injuries. Once we reach Avalon, I'm sure my wife will insist on treating any lasting hurt you still bear and then lament at my own inadequate healing skills.' He smiled, ‘when you are fit and healthy, then you will join my squires Salazar and Hamon, who will teach and aid you in your duties. Especially Salazar, as he is also training to be a wizard. If you require it, I'm sure they will be more than willing to help you adapt to your new responsibilities.' The warm smile and twinkling eyes rested on Godric and the boy realised that he was being dismissed. Running a hand through his red hair, Godric stood hurriedly. He paused as he reached the door,

'Lord,' he asked inquiringly, 'who was that man in the palace courtyard? The man who attacked me?' Alain frowned slightly, and the smile slipped from his face, making his features seem cold and harsh. However, he seemed pleased that Godric had enough wits to ask,

'The man who accosted you is called Sir Robert of Bellême. He is a powerful magnate whose family holds swathes of land in both Normandy and England. He is a formidable man from a long line of wizards and his family have a well-earned reputation for violence and sadism.'

'Bellême,' whispered Godric. It all came flooding back; the tall brooding figure with the cold eyes and natural disposition of a killer, who had come within a whisper's breath of murdering Godric. He was a man who had no qualms with killing a child, especially a boy who had seemingly insulted his family honour. He had sensed a fear of Bellême radiating from the crowd and remembered how the powerfully built knight had intimidated his father. Godric shivered, recalling Bellême's promise that he would have revenge for his bruised pride. Alain sensed his unease,

'Bellême isn't usually a man who displays his anger publically. He prefers to vent his narcissistic tendencies in private, but you caught him at a bad time. Unfortunately, he is not the most loyal servant of the new King and is an outspoken supporter of Robert of Normandy's claim to the throne. However, Bellême only seeks to serve himself. He is no friend of mine, but neither are we enemies. Tonight, Bellême's followers are out looking for you, but some of my chosen men are standing guard close by and the King will not allow violence to mar his coronation. Consequently, Bellême may hold a feud against you. Godric, you must understand now, that as Lord of Avalon, I can only protect you for a time. I don’t doubt that Bellême will one day seek to do you harm. You are also discovering our world at a dangerous time. Wizarding Britain is a fractured place, filled with rival factions, warring cultures and violent, self-serving wizards. It would be wise to remain vigilant if you want to survive.'

Godric gulped, visibly paling. A feud? Rival factions and violent wizard? What world was Godric being thrown into? He realised that he was fiddling with his hands nervously and hurriedly stopped in case he humiliated himself in front of his uncle. Instead, Alain stood and strode over to Godric to place a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder.

'It is my duty to protect you, Godric and I promise I will, to the best of my abilities. By ignoring your plight, I have failed you in the past. But I promise, from this night on, that I will do everything in my power to keep my sister's son alive.' He smiled and Godric returned it half-heartedly.

'Thank you, Lord,' he whispered absentmindedly, his mind whirling with thoughts of wizards and knights. Alain squeezed his shoulder and Godric basked in his uncle’s reassuring smile.

'Now go and rest,' he said kindly, 'we have a busy day ahead of us. Tomorrow, we leave for Avalon…'


	4. A Castle in the Mist

The next morning passed in a haze of hurried activity. Godric was woken from an uncomfortable slumber by a boot nudging his shoulder. Rubbing at bleary eyes, he looked up to find the large man who had been guarding the chamber when Godric had first been brought here by his uncle's squire. The man's harsh features lacked the warmth Lord Alain so easily exhibited and was brutally riddled with scars taken in past battles. His eyes shone with disapproval.

'Up,' he ordered. Godric scrambled to his feet. The man continued to stare at him as if sizing the young boy up.

'You'll do,' he grunted, 'my name is Hugh and I am the castellan of Avalon. Whilst we are here, you will obey my orders. Lord Alain insisted that we were to give you time to rest, but you've slept long enough. Go and wash; I'll send Salazar and Hamon to find you. They'll start to show you your duties before we leave.' Godric nodded quickly and hurried to obey. Something about the man instantly dissuaded any argument.

He had just discovered a small basin of chilly rose-water to wash with when he was interrupted by the appearance of a young teen with thick tawny hair and a roguish grin.

'Finally, you're awake,' he said cheerily, 'thought you were dead you slept that long.' He poked his head out of the small room Godric was in, 'Oi Salazar, I've found him…'

'Hamon you idiot,' someone growled and Godric was suddenly confronted by the strange boy who had saved him from Bellême's wrath, 'I'm right behind you.' Hamon ran a hand through his hair and shrugged, unfazed, whilst Salazar turned his attention to Godric. Smirking, he held out a wooden bowl,

'Here,' he said, indicating that Godric should take it, 'I thought you should have something to eat before we start. Today's going to be a nightmare on an empty stomach.' Godric thanked him quietly as he took the bowl of pottage and quickly wolfed down the offered meal. He felt slightly intimidated by the presence of two boys his own age, but his companions remained ignorant of Godric's nervousness.

'So,' began Hamon as they waited for Godric to finish, 'you’re Lord Alain's nephew?' 

'Lord Alain told us not to badger him,' Salazar rolled his eyes and scolded the younger boy, looking apologetic, 'Sorry about Hamon. He lacks the common sense of ordinary men; probably due to the accident at birth that left him looking like such a hideous monstrosity.'

'Piss off, Sal,' chuckled Hamon good-naturedly, seemingly unfazed by his companion's insults, 'you reek of jealousy!'

'Evidently,' Salazar smirked with the confident assurance of someone who was very handsome.

'Say's the man who spends most of the morning in front of a mirror,' replied Hamon with a mischievous grin, turning to Godric, 'you should see his bedchamber at Avalon. How many mirrors have you got now Sal?' Salazar scowled and Godric realised that Hamon was lancing a particularly sore point.

'Only two,' he mumbled mulishly, 'and it's not my fault they're old and battered, they were made by the Romans hundreds of years ago. It's hard to make out a clear reflection…'

'Bullshit,' chuckled Hamon, delighted that he'd managed to irritate his friend, 'I know you persuaded Isolde to teach you the spell required to fix them.' Salazar flushed with mortification at this news, his eyes narrowing,

'She promised she wouldn't tell anyone!'

'I heard her regaling the tale to the lads in the guardroom that very night,' admitted Hamon, 'for someone who rarely speaks, she can do a brilliant impression of you; really nails that high-pitch whine of yours. It was hilariously accurate…ow!' The tawny haired youth sprang up from where he was leaning against the wall, rubbing at his arm. Surprised, Godric saw Salazar smiling smugly. He returned a small stick to its resting place inside his tunic, which caused Hamon to scowl,

'You said you wouldn't jinx me anymore!'

'I lied,' shrugged Salazar, returning his attention back to Godric, who'd been watching the exchange of banter in fascination. Ignoring Hamon's promise to pay Salazar back two-fold during their next weapons lesson, he pressed a bundle of fresh clothes into Godric's hands. The strange device of a small silver apple stitched from many delicate, interweaving patterns was emblazoned on its breast.

'Here, get dressed into these. You are now a squire to the Lord of Avalon and as such, need to look presentable.' He eyed Godric's current attire in disgust, 'you can dispose of them.' Godric looked at his clothes self-consciously and blushed at the extent in which the cloth was stained with grease, dirt and blood. It was no surprise that Raven had found him so ill-looking during the previous night's exploits. It contrasted plainly with his two companions, who both wore handsomely tailored tunics, although Hamon's unruly locks made him look sufficiently less well-groomed than the darkly handsome Salazar. Indeed, the latter seemed to take great care and pride in his appearance.

'Don't mind Sal,' Hamon assured Godric warmly, 'He might look like a vain, pompous prick, but not all the magic in the world can hide the fact he's just a little Flemish street-rat his mother accidently shit out one morning.' Salazar looked furious at Hamon's barb, but the latter sent him a disarming smile which doused his rising indignation. Nevertheless, Salazar levelled him with a look which reassured Hamon that he wouldn't be the only one not holding back during their next bout of martial training. Sighing Salazar waited for Godric to finish dressing before heading to the door, signalling for Godric and Hamon to follow him,

'Enough with the childish bickering,' he muttered exasperatedly, 'we have duties to complete.'

The next few hours were spent showing Godric the basic duties required of a squire. They returned to Alain's now empty chamber and Godric helped the two older boys to prepare their lord's personal belongings for travel. Armour had to be prepared and cleaned, whilst the constant dangers of the road meant that Alain's large broadsword had to be sharpened. Much to Godric's disappointment, he lacked the necessary experience to perform this duty and had to settle with watching Hamon teach him how to use long strokes of a whetstone to sharpen the blade's edges without blemishing the gleaming steel. Next was seeing to the horses and other beasts which belonged to Alain. Light palfreys, stout baggage-mules and the much more valuable knightly warhorse all had to be groomed, saddled and readied for travel. Godric, determined to succeed, watched them intently, taking in every piece of advice offered by the two boys. He realised quickly that if he ever wanted to be a knight, then this was a routine task he had to master. He also marvelled at the size of his uncle's personal mount, a mighty grey coloured beast. Salazar told him proudly that it had been imported from the greatest horse-breeders of Spain as a gift to Lord Alain. Whilst Salazar and Hamon prepared the horses, Godric was given the task of managing his uncle's unruly hound. Godric was sweating, aching and covered in filthy straw by the time he emerged from the kennel with the leashed hound in tow.

When Hugh eventually allowed them to have a brief break, the boys scurried to the kitchens and collected the food which had been prepared for Lord Alain's return to Avalon. Unlike his companions, who were shamelessly flirting with a pair of receptive maids, Godric was careful to avoid being noticed in case he was recognised by the same servant whose attentions he'd so narrowly escaped the previous night. Fortunately, it appeared he wasn't present and Godric felt guilty when they left the kitchens. They delivered the bundle of supplies to the knights of Alain's retinue, who eyed Godric and his bruised face with curiosity. Salazar and Hamon didn’t linger amd led Godric to a quiet spot in the palace courtyard to eat their own meal and between mouthfuls, Godric took the opportunity to thank Salazar for intervening with Bellême.

'Oh God, don't remind him,' groaned Hamon, 'he's been boasting about that for days!' Salazar rolled his eyes, 

'Don't worry about it,' he told Godric honestly, before smirking, 'besides, we wizards have to stick together.'

‘Lord Alain told me that Bellême is also a wizard?’

'Yes, he is,’ Salazar nodded, ‘which is why no one dared to intervene. Well, that and Bellême's reputation. No one trifles with Bellême without being scarred by the experience.' Salazar nodded at Godric's face, where the spell which Bellême had sliced a deep cut across Godric's cheek. It would mostly likely scar, although Godric was beginning to realise he'd been lucky to escape with such a little mark. Godric felt the sudden urge to voice his fears,

'Lord Alain told me that Bellême would hold a grudge against me.’

'I wouldn't worry about it,' Salazar reassured the younger boy, 'if no one dares cross Bellême, then they certainly won't have the courage to go against Lord Alain. He's the King's Grand Sorcerer for a reason.' Hamon nodded in agreement as Godric resisted the impulse to beg for more information about his enigmatic uncle.

'Well, would you wish to face Lord Alain in battle?' Hamon asked Salazar with a laugh, seemingly reading Godric's mind,

'Merlin no,' admitted Salazar, 'speaking frankly, Lord Alain's support is the only reason certain barons are reluctant to rebel against King William!'

'Rebellion?' Godric stuttered in alarm. The two older boys nodded grimly,

‘Some barons say that Robert of Normandy should be king of England,' explained Hamon,

'These barons are powerful men,' continued Salazar, 'and Lord Alain believes that the King's uncle is the instigator, although I'd bet all my gold that Bellême's influence is stirring revolt.'

'So, the rebellion will effect wizards?'

'It always does,' replied Salazar incredulously, 'Wizards and Muggles have always meddled in each other's affairs. Lord Alain is the King's Grand Sorcerer. If England descends into rebellion, then Lord Alain will be forced to act on the King's behalf. Besides, you can wager wizards like Bellême will be throwing their wands behind the rebellion.'

'Don't worry,' Hamon shrugged, 'we'll be safe in Avalon by the time the rebellion flares up, if it does at all'

'Avalon's the most protected keep in Britain,' Salazar said, 'It'll take more than just a few disgruntled barons to threaten Lord Alain’s lands.’ 

'Who protects Lord Alain when he's on campaign?' Godric inquired, making Hamon grin.

‘Men like my father,' Hamon said proudly, before elaborating further when he saw Godric's nonplussed expression, ‘Hugh is my father and Lord Alain’s greatest knight.’

'You’d be hard-pressed to find a tougher bastard,’ Salazar finished with a knowing smirk, 'if you think Lord Alain's a formidable man, then wait until your first glimpse of Troll-Bane with a sword in his hand.' 

Troll-Bane was a bizarre byname, but one which hinted at a great origin. Before he could inquire further, Godric caught sight of two men and another small figure emerging from the great palace. Godric's eyes widened, instantly recognising his father. Sir Edmund strode towards a group of tethered horses, Siward as always at his back. Both Salazar and Hamon fell silent as their companion physically paled and began to shake. They quickly followed his gaze and recognisied the catalyst for the boy's sudden change in demeanour.

Sir Edmund helped the small figure into the saddle of the horse which had once borne his son, before mounting his own. As he shifted into position and prepared to leave, he glanced around the courtyard until suddenly, his gaze fell on Godric. The older man visibly stiffened and for the briefest moment, Godric felt as if his heart had turned to stone. Then Sir Edmund's eyes slid passed him and he spat, purposefully, into a pile of nearby steaming manure. Nudging his horse towards the gate, he refused to acknowledge his only living son.

The hooded figure draped in a heavy cloak glanced curiously in his direction and Godric saw a fair-haired face hidden beneath the mantle. This was the woman who was to replace his mother as the Lady of Black-Hollow. She appeared to be little over fifteen years old. Eleanor le Broc stared at Godric momentarily, then demurely followed her new husband. Behind her was Siward, who paused briefly to acknowledge Godric with a bow of his head. Then he followed Sir Edmund and Godric felt rather touched by the stoic old warrior’s farewell.

He silently watched the riders disappear into the rising dust beyond the courtyard's gate until they were gone. Godric sighed, surprised by the sudden pang of loss. Black-Hollow had been his home. Admittedly it had been a place of torment and grief, but it was his home nonetheless. To discover that he was now barred from there by a father who refused to acknowledge his existence left him feeling desolate and alone.

Remaining subdued, he felt two hands being laid on each shoulder. Looking up, he found both Salazar and Hamon smiling sadly back,

'His loss,' grunted Salazar, before raising Godric to his feet. Godric smiled back hesitantly, before following his two companions as they returned to their duties, pushing any thoughts of his father and Black-Hollow to the back of his mind. After all, Avalon was to become his new home now.

Godric pondered how he'd ended up in the presence of such a strange company. The retainers of Lord Alain’s household were far into their journey, travelling west along well-trodden roads towards fabled Avalon. The journey had passed quickly and Godric marvelled at the swiftness of their steeds and how light the loads they carried appeared. Indeed, Salazar had informed him that the baggage and supplies they bore were all charmed with spells so that they appeared lighter. The horses had also been fed with food imbued with magical properties and herbs to enhance their capabilities beyond that of normal beasts, enabling the retinue to travel further over a shorter time. Once again Godric's mind whirled with thoughts of magic and the opportunities that now lay tantalisingly at his fingertips.

The young boy was also astonished by the men and, to his disbelief, women, of his uncle's retinue. Unlike the sombre group he'd travelled with from Black-Hollow, this company was a jovial, colourful and flamboyantly dressed band. They joked, heckled and laughed with abandon, even seeing fit to kindly extend this courtesy to Godric, whose initial intimidation soon gave way to a shy pleasantness. Salazar and Hamon were constant companions, riding beside the younger boy and introducing him to any member of the retinue who ventured an intrigued inquisition towards Godric's presence. The most insistent of which was a short, barrel-chested man with a huge braided beard and dark eyes, who Salazar introduced as Bayard le Boar. Godric soon discovered why he'd acquired such a name, for the man had the ill-manners and stench of a wild brute,

'Don't let them fool you, boy,' he said, riding beside Godric, 'they're just jealous that I've got the strength of the mightiest boar.' He proved this by clapping the young boy on the shoulder, almost sending Godric flying out of the saddle. Bayard laughed loudly,

'Or is it because you're prepared to fuck any ugly sow who dares calls herself a woman?' taunted another, a good-natured man they called Hadrian. He had the dark features of an Easterner and barely ever quarrelled with his companions. Bayard replied with a two-fingered salute,

'Ask your mother, or is she too busy rutting with elves?' Everyone laughed, including Hadrian whose mother's honour had been insulted. Even Godric smiled and wondered how the retinue could seemingly ignore the dangers inherent on the road. They radiated an infectious confidence and gaiety, which Godric had slowly realised masked a keen-eyed surveillance of the woods and hills which surrounded the road, for steady hands always lingered near swords, lances and wands in readiness for the remote chance they were called upon. Godric also noticed that the two men leading the company were seemingly disengaged from the jovial atmosphere.

Lord Alain and Hugh Troll-Bane rode side by side at the head of the retainers, sitting proudly astride their mounts, Alain's long grey cloak fluttering beside Hugh's scarlet mantle. Both men seemed relaxed, although swords remained belted to their sides and Hugh's watchful gaze incessantly swept over the surrounding for any signs of danger. Occasionally, the two men would converse together, but they never extended the conversation to the rest of the retinue. Alain only glanced back once to catch Godric's eye, before smiling at the excited expression which beamed from his nephew’s face.

The rest of the long journey passed quickly and soon they had reached the outskirts of the lowland marshes which Godric discovered surrounded Avalon. An experienced horseman on a good mount could travel at least fifty to sixty kilometres a day, possibly more if the conditions were favourable. Yet their company had travelled almost double that amount and Godric could scarcely believe Salazar's tales of trained wizards who could vanish with the flick of a wand before reappearing in a faraway location. Only the memory of a day when a half-crazed horse had almost killed him grounded it, although Godric refrained from admitting that he'd accomplished such a feat. Even Salazar hadn't accompanied it and he was two years wiser than Godric in magical lore. Besides, Alain was a born horseman, who'd mastered the art of wizarding travel long ago but still preferred the thrill of riding a well-trained mount. Salazar. On the other hand, Salazar was not and dreamt of the day he'd be able to travel in a swirl of magic rather than suffer from the embarrassment of his lousy horsemanship.

As the strange band meandered towards Avalon, the proximity of Glastonbury Abbey, the richest monastery in the land, was greeted with muffled curses from those with magical abilities. They had faced persecution and slander at the hands of the Church at their lives. The ecclesiastical community at Glastonbury Abbey were amongst the worst offenders and Alain had once been forced to intervene to put a stop to the bloodshed and keep the King's peace. Ever since, the Lord of Avalon and the community of Glastonbury monks had been locked in a bitter struggle for influence over the local people.

They moved on swiftly to avoid provoking unnecessary trouble and Godric was astounded at the natural beauty of the surrounding landscape. Small patches of woodland and large hills bisected the marshy lowlands and flooded plains. Above all loomed the Tor, a solitary hill which rose above the low-lying mists and dominated the land. As they skirted the foot of the large hill guarded by ancient standing stones, Hamon turned and grinned at Godric,

'We've just passed the gateway to Avalon,' he told Godric cheerfully,

'I always thought that was Avalon,' he replied in bemusement, pointing at the distant Tor.

'That's just Muggle superstition,' Salazar informed him with a laugh, 'created by simple minded Muggles like Hamon. The real Avalon is hidden from prying eyes by magic far older and greater than anything we can hope to conjure.' He raised a hand and pointed into the mists which were edging nearer. Godric followed his gaze, but could see nothing in the thick expanse of mist which concealed the wetland.

'I don't see anything,' he admitted, worried at what this might mean. Salazar simply shrugged,

'We don't either,' he said, 'only the household of the Lord of Avalon or those rare few who know Avalon's secret ways can penetrate the ancient wards. Don't worry my friend, you'll see it soon enough.'

Godric nodded, trusting Salazar's word. The retinue continued on until they had penetrated the mists, where the air around them grew mild and moist. So thick was the mist that Godric found it difficult to even see those closest to him, barely able to keep Salazar’s emerald cloak insight. The earth beneath them became soft and dewy, for they no longer followed a road, but appeared to have diverted onto a small path which meandered unevenly through the marsh. Godric could only hope that his uncle knew the way. His nerves were on tender hooks and every shriek from nearby waterfowl or rustling of unseen creatures in the reeds frayed them further. There was an unnerving quality to the world around them as if their progress was being watched from the behind a veil of silvery mist. Godric shivered unconsciously, his imagination conjuring images of wild monsters and flesh-eating creatures. Only then did he note that the group's previous gaiety had fallen silent upon entry to the marsh surrounding of Avalon.

Then a horn blast rang out from the head of the retinue. Godric jumped at the echoing sound, continuing forward and following Salazar as they entered a small clearing in the mist. Alain had come to a halt by a solitary, old and forlorn willow tree which perched precariously amidst the moss-covered stones beside a deep marsh pool. Hugh was beside him, a large bone horn clasped in his hand. The rest of the retinue trudged into the clearing behind them, cramming into the small expanse of clear air in-between the misty veil when they gathered silently beside the tree.

Alain dismounted and strode up to the old willow, unsheathing his wand as he went. Intrigued, Godric watched his uncle step up to the gnarled tree and run one hand over the trunk. Raising his wand, he pressed it against a protruding knot and muttered an incantation beneath his breath. Yet, nothing happened. 

Then suddenly the willow's branches rustled as a strong breeze rushed over the retinue and a vertical scroll of ancient engraved symbols were illuminated by a pearly light which seemed to shine from the heart of the tree itself. The wind whistled loudly like a screeching call, causing the horses to shift nervously. Then it was gone as soon as it had come, the sound subsiding into silence. Godric looked about him as Alain sat down on a protruding root, smiling in satisfaction. The company began to dismount, taking the opportunity to rub and stretch their aching limbs. The young boy followed suit, sidling up to Salazar who was gently running a hand across his mount's flank to calm the horse's unease.

'What happens now?' he asked, utterly bewildered by the series of strange events.

'We wait,' Salazar said simply,

'Wait for what?'

'The Ferryman,' replied Salazar with a smile, refusing to elaborate any further. The retinue rested as they waited for the mysterious Ferryman, some slumping down in relaxation whilst others tended to their nervous steeds. Alain, his back against the willow, appeared to be dozing lightly. Hugh alone stood at the edge of the clearing, hand resting on his sword hilt and peering into the mist as if expecting some monstrous enemy to come rushing out at any moment. Hamon, as restless as ever, shifted over to stand beside Godric,

'Looking forward to seeing Avalon?' Godric nodded in response,

'I can't wait,' he admitted sincerely, 'although I don't really know what to expect!' He heard a series of chuckles around him and discovered that he'd caused a great deal of good-natured amusement amongst his uncle's retainers,

'No one ever does,' a quiet voice agreed and Godric turned to find the taciturn Isolde smiling at him. She winked as a young, cheerful man called Gervais spoke up,

'I can still remember the first time I saw Avalon,'

'Can you?' asked his stoic brother, Gilbert, eying his younger sibling in surprise,

'Of course I can…'

'Weren't you drunk?'

'Still counts,’ Gervais grinned, everything was just a little hazy.'

'Forget Avalon,' growled Bayard wistfully, 'I can't wait to see Ella's tits!' There was a groan from the waiting company.

'If she lets you,' smiled Hadrian, who seemed to enjoy lancing Bayard’s bluster.

'Or can suffer his stink,' muttered Isolde, to the laughter of those around her.

'I bathed recently,' smirked Bayard, 'two full moons ago at least.'

'Lucky Ella,' commented Salazar dryly. Bayard swore at him,

'I've been hearing rumours about you lad. Make sure you keep that prick of yours in those breeches,' Bayard warned Salazar, who merely smirked at the implication, 'Ella needs a real man.' 

‘An elf wouldn’t deserve a man like you,’ Salazar scoffed. 

‘She certainly doesn’t deserve a pimpled youth with too many mirrors,' Bayard grinned menacingly. The group howled at Salazar's expense, who merely sat scowling at Isolde, who returned his mulish look with a wry smile. Godric chuckled quietly, accidently drawing Bayard's uncouth attentions to him,

'Trust me,' he told Godric, 'wait until you see Ella. She's the greatest whore in the entire realm. A temptress who could bewitch the heart of any man, unless you're Lord Alain of course. So, don't go getting any ideas, being a blood relation to our Lord won't get you any benefits!' He leered at Godric, causing the younger boy to blush.

'Bayard,' Alain spoke up calmly, his eyes still closed, 'I hope you're not corrupting my nephew.'

'Wouldn't dream of it, Lord,' replied Bayard airily, 'just expanding the boy's knowledge of what to expect from life at Avalon; especially about Ella and her lovely tits. Just to warn you if you do get any ideas,' he leant towards Godric, 'there's no following in my footsteps. My manhood's the envy of the land!'

'Bayard,' Alain admonished, 'if you speak like that in front of my wife, then she'll banish you from Avalon for good.'

'And leave you devoid of your greatest knight?' A subtle, disbelieving cough came from the edge of the group. Everyone turned to look at Hugh, who didn't even bother meeting their gaze. However, no one could miss the smirk he tried to hide. There was a rumble of laughter,

‘Hold your tongue, Troll-Bane,' called out Bayard good-humouredly, 'I'm no troll. Give me an axe and I'd chop you down to size!' Hugh glanced back, contemplating an answer, sizing Bayard with an experienced eye. After a moment, he shrugged dismissively,

'No,' he said, 'I'd still kill you.'

Amidst the cajoling and laughter which followed, Bayard's response was lost on Godric. Instead, the boy gazed past the surrounding figures to a point beyond the old willow, where a small ball of light had suddenly appeared, hovering above the marshy pool. Whispery flames of blue and violet hung in the air, held in place by old and forgotten magic. Godric's gaped at the hovering light,

‘Lord?' he said loudly. His uncle's eyes sprang open and he stared at Godric in surprise, until the boy pointed over his shoulder. Twisting about, he looked at the hovering whisper of light. Then he smiled, leaping to his feet with acrobatic ease.

'The Ferryman,' he said. Striding over to Godric, Alain ruffled his nephew's red hair,

'Good eyes,' he praised, grinning as Godric reddened. The retinue sprang into the action, reaching for their weapons and horses. Once mounted, Alain led them to edge of the pool. Godric watched in astonishment as Alain's horse took a tentative step into the pool, only for a small stone to rise from its depths and stop the hooves from plunging beneath the murky surface. As Alain trod slowly past the unearthly ball of light, another appeared just beyond him, leading them through the mist. The retinue followed close behind, Godric hesitating at the pools edge before taking a deep breath and nudging his horse forwards until it trudged over the pool’s otherworldly aura.

They made slow progress, following the spectral lights as they ambled through the mist. As they inched forwards, more and more lights joined the gleaming balls of whispery flame. They darted haphazardly like small birds around the retinue and Godric struggled to keep up with the fluttering lights. The boy's eyes widened when he realised that these weren't birds at all, but tiny beings with sleek bodies and large, dark eyes which scrutinised him inquisitively as they flew past. A splash made him look down and he saw more of the strange scaly creatures dashing through the watery pools like fish before flinging themselves into the air to leap over stones and marshy undergrowth. These were the fairies and sprites who inhabited the caverns and rocky pools along the hidden road to Avalon, the first native creatures to come to this ancient land.

Godric barely noticed the mist thinning until the light of the late evening sun half blinded him. Then it was gone, blocked by a huge towering shadow. Godric dragged his eyes away from the glowing creatures and looked up. His mouth immediately fell open because stood before them was the most incredible scene he had ever witnessed, for a castle had appeared from the misty veil.

A huge rocky hillside rose abruptly from the marshland. It was covered in trees, their leafy foliage a mirage of autumn colours and brimming with life. Huge rocky crags erupted from the hillside as many streams of clear water trickled about them, channelling into rocky pools or over waterfalls in a cascade of glistening splendour. Hundreds of apple trees had sprung from the hillside, their spiralling branches arching over small footpaths, in which hung many of the ripest fruits Godric had ever seen. A small trail had been cut into the rocks, rising past the waterfalls and wooded glades to the foot of an immense castle of gleaming stone.

The castle towered over the landscape like a silent sentinel of stone, as if watching over the outcrops of magical pools, meadows and glades of apple trees. Tall towers rose high, adorned with colourful banners hoisted on strong poles and fluttering in the wind. The castle's stone was the brightest white and seemed to bask in an ethereal light. Godric was rendered speechless, for all the castles he'd ever seen paled in comparison to Avalon. He didn't notice that Salazar was watching him until the boy's loud laughter stirred him from his internal wonder,

'Behold, the Isle of Apples and the ancient seat of the Lord of Avalon.' 

Alain's retinue looked on with amusement at Godric's reaction as the group reached the steep path which rose up towards the castle’s gate. Animals, both familiar and strange, paused in their daily routines to watch the company pass. Godric had yet to recover the use of his tongue. He was astonished at the beauty and majesty of what surrounded him, unable to comprehend that this mystical place was to be his new home. It was a truly magical place.

They finally reached the hill's brow after passing a huge grey boulder covered in thousands of carved symbols. Turning the corner, they beheld the spectacular sight of Avalon's gatehouse. Two worn, sculptured totems carved from rock in the form of ancient warriors who guarded the bridge, clutching huge spears and shields made of stone as they stood unmoving outside Avalon's ancient entrance. When they reached the bridge, Godric realised that it was placed over a huge chasm which disappeared down into a dark abyss, where fountains of moist vapour rose past on either side from some distant and unknown source. Huge wooden doors, reinforced with strips of thick iron hung open as they made their way into Avalon's inner bailey. 

Godric had expected a large clamour to greet them, the blaring of great horns and shouts of jubilation from the castle's inhabitants. Instead, they were merely greeted by one solitary figure. A small woman stood alone, serenely watching the well-travelled group enter the castle's domain. Alongside the rest of Alain's retinue, Godric began to lead his horse towards a large wooden structure adjoining the castle's walls which he guessed were Avalon's stables. Yet, his attention strayed towards his uncle, who had broken away from his retainers and was now advancing towards the woman.

Coming to a stop before her, Alain slipped from the large mount's back and stood tall, eying the woman strangely. Then he dropped to his knees and bowed to her. A soft, caring smile broke over the woman's face before she reached out with a hand and gently stroked his face, starting from his greying locks and tracing it down to his chin, where she tilted it slightly so that Alain was forced to look up into her face. Alain suddenly beamed and the woman's own quickly joined it, her eyes beginning to glisten with unshed tears.

‘Lady,' he whispered softly. He kissed the pale hand which held him. Her eyes glistened further, and a single tear fell, but she was smiling fondly at the man’s show of devotion.

'Foolish man,' she told him, before helping him rise to his feet. Then she was in his arms, embracing him lovingly as their lips finally met. It was astonishing for Godric to witness such an open and public display of affection. It was a foreign experience to a boy who had neither experienced nor witnessed it before. He was certain his father had never held his mother in such a way, especially in such blatant disregard for social propriety and he was stunned at how Alain and his wife seemed to revel in it.

The lovers broke apart, although they remained clasped in each other's embrace, with Alain smiling down at the woman in his arms and speaking in soft whispers so that no one else could hear them. Not wishing to interrupt the charming scene, Godric dismounted and, following the example set by Salazar and Hamon, began to lead his horse towards the stable when Alain called out to him,

'Godric,' he called, 'could you come here for a moment.' 

Godric hesitated, but Hamon had already taken the reins from his hands with a smile, assuring him that he would care for the mount's needs. Freed from the responsibility of stabling his horse, Godric walked to where Alain stood with the small woman by his side. As he neared, he could make out the woman's elegant features more clearly. She stood demurely in a light, pale blue dress and exhibited a serenity that he doubted any other woman would ever be able to achieve in life. Braided, dark hair fell loose past her shoulders, framing a beautiful face with large, round eyes which were fixed intently upon Godric. Her smile appeared motherly and Godric couldn't help but feel as if an aura of mystery clung to her; one which wasn't quite human. However, he was interrupted from his reverie when a soft voice greeted him.

'Greetings Godric of Black-Hollow,' the woman said kindly, 'my husband informs me that you are the son of his sister Alys.'

'Yes, Lady,' Godric replied, finding his tongue.

'Alain also tells me that you are of magical blood and that you are to join our household.' Godric could only nod. He met her intense gaze, realising with astonishment that her eyes were a curious shade of violet.

'Then welcome to Avalon. I am Lord Alain's wife, Morwenna, and the mistress of his household,' suddenly she raised her voice for all to hear, 'Come. Your families and friends have prepared a great feast to welcome your return.' She turned to Godric and smiled warmly, 'we have much to discuss about your future, Godric of Avalon.'

Placing her hand on his shoulder, Morwenna led the boy towards the great keep and enraptured by the aura she radiated, Godric followed her wordlessly. They were closely followed by her husband, whose eyes still gleamed in wonderment at the woman he was completely devoted too, for the Lady of Avalon was a jewel and there was no luckier man in the kingdom than the Lord of the Isle of Apples.


	5. The Dawn of a Bright Future

'The Lord of Avalon is an ancient title,' Salazar told him between mouthfuls of roast heron, 'dating back over a thousand years to Arawn, the first Greycloak. Many others have been deemed worthy of the title and have added their magic to the wards and laws which govern Avalon's borders.' 

Godric listened intently, enraptured by the older boy's tales. The food on his trencher lay forgotten, a hard task considering the rich and bountiful feast rustled up by Alain's household cook. It seemed to Godric that every recipe known to mankind was available at the table. There was pork, beef, mutton, venison and a variety of birds with pike, carp and eels caught in the local marshes laying alongside vegetables, nuts and succulent fruits gathered from Avalon's high hill. It was a meal fit for royalty.

With his stomach fit to burst, he now rested in the company of his uncle's household, listening to stories and making courteous introductions. He was well-accustomed to Alain's personal retainers after the journey from Westminster. There was young, cheerful Gervais and his stoic brother Gilbert; reserved Isolde; kind Hadrian and tall Tancred. Bayard was also present, having taken the seat to the side of Godric and appeared to be trying to consume an entire hog alone. Salazar and Hamon sat to his right, whilst opposite them sat his uncle, Morwenna and the ever-silent Hugh. Four more joined them at the high table. There was Lambert, the steward of Lord Alain's household, whose dour personality and unsmiling face seemed at odds with the general jovial atmosphere exhibited in Avalon's great hall. Another man, flamboyantly dressed in foreign and exotic clothing, was in deep conversation with Lady Morwenna, both thoroughly enjoying matching their wits against the other. The last two figures sat contemplating the hall around them, smiling contently. One, a small middle-aged man with a sunken eye, surprised Godric by wearing the simple habit of a Christian monk. The other was a middle-aged woman perched at the end of the bench, eating in peace and enjoying the conversations and laughter around her with half-lidded eyes.

'Of course,' continued Salazar, 'the most famous Lord of Avalon was Merlin. Apparently, he left more of a mark on Avalon than any other before and since, well, besides Lord Alain…' He gestured to their surroundings with his eating knife. A mighty stone table hung just below the hall's rafters behind Lord Alain's high seat. It was round and carved in swirling jade symbols. 

'That's the feasting table of the warlord Arthur. Merlin gifted it to him as a token of their undying friendship,' Salazar explained further, 'It's well known that Merlin and Arthur shared a famous bond, a strange but not unheard-of circumstance for a wizard and Muggle. After he fell in battle, Merlin even insisted that Arthur was buried here, inside Avalon's ancient heroes. Legend says the warlord's famous sword lies deep in one of its sacred pools.' 

Godric gaped at the great hall. A half-dozen statues lined the walls, each of the engraved totems stood as tall as a man and bore the likenesses of a different warrior. Hamon had told him that there were twelve in all, dotted about the halls of Avalon. These were Arthur's warriors; men such as Bedywr, Culhwch, Sagramor, Gwalchavad the Fair and Derfel Carden. As they did in life, they now guarded Arthur during his eternal slumber. Godric was drawn to them, sensing that he inhabited a world of renown and untold wonders. Colourful and ornately decorated, with roaring hearth fires and laughing people, the crowded hall was brimming with life. Godric could barely comprehend his good fortune.  


'Only Lord Alain has added as extensively to Avalon as Merlin did. It was Alain who built this castle over the foundations of Merlin’s crumbling and ruined stronghold. When he first came to Avalon it was in disrepair. This hall is all that remains of the Merlin's old designs…'

‘For God sake,' interjected Bayard, crying out loudly in exasperation, 'you'll bore the poor lad to death if you keep on droning on!' Salazar scowled across Godric at the boorish man,

'I was trying to explain Avalon’s heritage…'

'Well, congratulations, you’ve managed to explain how much of a pompous arse you are?' Bayard responded bluntly. Godric inched away from the man's breath, which reeked of ale and half-chewed food, 'the boy wants to hear stories about battles and duels and how his own uncle overcame two Seidr champions in the northern hills. What about how Troll-Bane got his name or how extraordinary I am in battle! But no, instead, you talk about bloody architecture!'

'I'm sure if he wanted to hear about feats of arms then he'd look elsewhere,' said Salazar grumpily, 'not even the most talented of troubadours could make your frequent brawls seem heroic, Le Boar.' The older man waved a hand in dismissal and was about to respond when Godric spoke up,

'I'd be happy to hear any story actually,' Godric said truthfully. He would be prepared to listen intently to any stories concerning swordsmanship, whether they were heroic deeds or brutish brawls. However, he was also fascinated by Salazar's history of Avalon, especially those tales concerning his uncle. His interruption succeeded in dampening quick tempers and Bayard's attention was distracted by the arrival of Magge, Avalon's talented cook, who approached the table to deliver more food to the man's loud declaration of love and devotion. Salazar scowled, simply picking at his food. However, he was soon roused out of his dour mood by the attentions of a group of young maids seated at a long table to the side of the hall. Following his gaze, Godric realised that one maid in particularly seemed to be showing an interest in his new friend. She was smiling shyly at Salazar and the darkly handsome youth was content to respond in kind, his own feelings blatant. Curiously, Godric noticed that the young maid's companions were more intrigued by Godric. The young boy immediately blushed at their attentions, which caused them to descend into a fit of giggles and Godric to redden further.

'That was well done,' someone said and Godric turned to find the monk watching him closely. Godric wilted under the scrutiny, but the monk smiled reassuringly,

'How you stopped their argument from escalating,' the monk explained, 'very impressive. It was almost reminiscent of a certain someone I know.' His shrunken eye glanced at Alain and the boy flushed at the comparison.

'My names Belin,' the man claimed, introducing himself politely, ‘I have been informed by your uncle that I will be partially responsible for your education.'  
Godric's horror must have shown. The monk gave a hearty laugh at the boy's expression, eying Godric with interest,

'I take it that like most wizards who have come before you, your experiences with the followers of Christ have been rather undesirable. I intend to change that and show you the good that comes with faith. The rest will fall too.'

'Me,' said a deep voice and Godric turned to start at the dark-skinned man who had been speaking to Lady Morwenna; whose attention had also been diverted towards Godric. The dark-skinned man bowed his head, 'my name is Yusuf-al-Qurtubi, and it is a pleasure to meet the nephew of Alain of Avalon.' Belin smiled at Godric,

'Yusuf and I are Lord Alain's scholars and the keepers of Avalon's records. In the years to come, we will seek to teach you the languages, histories and laws which you will need to master if you are to become a wizard of the magical world.' 

Godric nodded uneasily. Like his previous tutor, whose malicious treatment of Godric had been a hell to endure, Belin was a Christian monk. But despite his sunken eye, his constant smile alluded to a kindly nature. Godric glanced at Yusuf, whose foreign garb and dark skin hinted at an origin and life beyond Britain's borders, perhaps even past those of Christendom. His skin bore the marks of hard travel and his eyes radiated wisdom gained from many experiences. Godric lacked both, but couldn't help feeling a flicker of nervous excitement at the prospect of being taught by these two world-weary men. Finally, his gaze fell on Lady Morwenna. Again, he was startled by the strange aura she radiated. She appeared neither young nor old, which made it impossible for Godric to guess her age. Yet her ever present gracefulness alluded to great stores of wisdom and magic.

'I will also contribute to your training,' she informed him with a gentle smile, 'under my guidance you will learn the theories behind magical lore, the histories of these islands and the secrets of Avalon itself.'

'Learning how to use magic will fall to me,' continued Alain, interrupting his conversation with Hugh to bestow a smile on his nephew, 'first you must understand the theory behind magic whilst I find you an apprentice's wand. Do we have any in our stores, Lambert?'

'Not that I am aware of, Lord,' the steward replied immediately.

'Mm, then I will have to find a different source. I'll send messages to the greatest wandmakers of our time.'

'As a squire for the Lord of Avalon, he will require the best of them,' Morwenna reminded him lightly. Alain recognised what she was hinting at instantly.

'I suppose so,' said Alain, staring at his wife fondly, 'then I'll approach the family and see if we can arrange a meeting. It'll be hard; for they spend much of the year venturing abroad into the wilds in their search of wand cores. We may be forced to wait, but if Godric is to have the best, then they are the only wizards I trust to provide it.' Morwenna looked pleased, whilst Godric felt a surge of excitement bubbling within him at the prospect of owning his very own wand.

'Once you have a wand,' Alain continued, 'I will seek to guide you, by the same methods I have guided Salazar thus far and my own master used on me. However, you must remember that as the King's Grand Sorcerer and an active member of the great council of Britain, I am a busy man. As such, my duties may call me away from Avalon for extended periods. In my absence, Yusuf will oversee your training. No man has such extensive knowledge of the magical arts of so many different cultures. His advice will be essential to your development; listen to what he offers you.'

Godric nodded, wondering what was to become of his martial training when placed against the demands of his magical lessons and duties as a squire. Morwenna fixed Godric with a piercing stare,

'My husband also tells me,' she said slowly, her face expressionless, 'that you wish to become a knight?' Godric blushed at this admission, fearing that she had read his thoughts. Perhaps his deepest desires were simply so transparent that they could be read easily by a trained eye. Bayard, now thoroughly drunk, roared his approval and clapped a bruising hand against Godric's back, almost catapulting the boy's face into his trencher. Those around them rolled their eyes and Morwenna's face briefly slipped into a scowl.

'Really Bayard?' She chastised him. Le Boar mumbled an apology, which was inconveniently disrupted by a drunken belch. Now Morwenna's distaste for the man could not be restrained. Suddenly her demeanour changed and for the first time in Godric's presence, her serene countenance vanished and she seemed to be on the brink of bursting into a scathing tirade at Bayard's boorish manners. However, a large hand slid over hers and the gentle caress of her husband's tanned fingers on her alabaster skin stilled any verbal onslaught before it could materialise. Sighing, she turned and shared a small smile with Alain. Their attention returned to Godric,

'It’s true, Lady,' the boy finally replied. Morwenna nodded, before gesturing to Hugh, who had yet to address anyone other than Alain and Morwenna during the feast.

'I can sense the noble spirit of a warrior in you, Godric. If this is your will, then your martial training is in Hugh's hands,' she said simply, 'our castellan has been Alain’s loyal companion for many years. Indeed, he was by Alain’s side when they first came to Avalon. There is no better knight in all the realm.' 

Godric turned to Hugh, who seemed unmoved by Morwenna's praise of his martial prowess, although he did meet Godric's gaze. They stared at each other for a moment, before his lips twitched in the briefest of smirks. It was more menacingly than any verbal promise that his knightly training would prove to be a hardship.

'Now, Morwenna,' laughed Alain good-naturedly, 'if you carry on praising Hugh like this I may have cause to be jealous.'

'Oh, Lord Alain,' a sultry voice said from behind Godric as a tall woman strode past, her long red hair swaying with every subtle movement of her hips, 'I'm sure you have nothing to fear.' Bayard practically roared at the woman's arrival, lunging forward and dragging her onto his lap. The woman let out a short bark of laughter, slapping the man's fondling hands away as they rose towards her breasts.

'Not a chance, Bayard,' she chastised him sternly, leaning away from him in exasperation, 'you stink like a hog and I still haven't received my payment for the last time I serviced you.'

'But my beautiful…' Bayard tried to protest,

'See to yourself, you great oaf,' she huffed, used to his feeble excuses and desperate pleas. Yet, she remained perched on his lap, gently running a hand over the creases in her ruffled dress. If Morwenna had been scowling at Bayard, then she was positively glaring at this woman, who met Morwenna's gaze unflinchingly. The air around the two women was immediately thick with tension.

'I wouldn't dream of straying into your territory, Ella,' Morwenna hissed scathingly. It dawned on Godric quickly who the strident woman was. Ella, the fabled whore of Avalon.

'I'm sure I'd have no reason to fear even if you did, dear Lady,' replied Ella, just as cattily.

'How have you been faring Ella?' asked Alain, again stroking his wife's hand to placate her temper, although Morwenna seemed to be struggling considerably in Ella's presence.

'Not very well, no thanks to you!' she pouted, 'Taking away my business, Lord. How very callous of you. Letting a humble whore like me go on impoverished and without the means to make a living.' Alain chuckled at the lie whilst his wife snorted, rolling her eyes. Ella ignored the Lady of Avalon. Instead, she cast an eye over the three youths sat at the high table.

'But I see that you have brought fresh delicacies for me to sample,' she said appraisingly, an almost predatorily feline glint in her eye. Salazar and Hamon both grinned at her, but as her gaze landed on Godric the boy felt his blush return tenfold. She smiled at him, 'and who is this young man?'

'This is Godric,' Alain answered patiently, 'my nephew and the latest addition to our household.'

‘Really,' she said, her eyes twinkling deviously, 'fascinating; and so full of potential.’

'Isn't he a little young, even for your tastes Ella?' interrupted Morwenna,

'True,' the whore replied, 'but when the time comes, I'll be sure to teach him the real skills that truly make a man.' She winked at Godric, who blushed even redder, speechless at the promise in her voice.

'He's just a boy,' Morwenna snapped incredulously, appalled at Ella's behaviour.

'One day he'll be a man,' Ella responded acidly, 'besides, I thought the reason I was hired was to entertain the needs of Lord Alain's retinue. I recall that was the understanding when I arrived in Avalon? Or would you prefer the men to spend their seed in your maids and have lots of little bastards roaming the castle?’

'If you're looking for a real man,' grunted Bayard suggestively, his fingers playing with the edges of Ella's dress as he scratched at a louse scurrying in his thick beard. Ella huffed dramatically, slapping the man's hand away for the second time.

'Then I'll be sure to send him your way.' Ella replied as she leapt off Bayard's lap amidst jaunty cajoling. She bowed low to both Lord Alain and Lady Morwenna, albeit a little stiffly when facing the Lady of Avalon. Then with one last alluring smile at the three boys, she was gone, disappearing into the crowd to find a customer to ply her trade and earn more coin.

'The power politics of Avalon,' said Belin in a hushed whisper, leaning towards Godric. Indeed, the boy was intelligent enough to realise that the relationship between Lady Morwenna and Avalon's whore was fraught with mutual dislike, although a thinly veiled truce seemed to be held between the two women.

'She's…' Godric began, but was interrupted by Hamon, whose eyes hadn't left Ella's retreating hips,

'Bewitching!' Hamon concluded dreamily and Bayard heartily agreed, turning to leer at the monk, 'even you must be tempted, Belin?'

'Perhaps,' allowed Belin with a smile, 'but I'm merely a humble monk. Any man who wants to rut with Ella needs deeper pockets than me and a hoard of treasure at their disposal. Ella sells nothing cheaply…'

'Except her morals,' Morwenna hissed under her breath, causing those around her to chuckle lightly.

'Peace my love,' Alain dismissed his wife's dislike with an easy shrug, 'Ella is a key and necessary cog in the workings of the household. Even you admit it. Besides, she also brews the greatest ale to ever grace the halls of Avalon…' There was a cheer from the gathered men, especially Hamon, who had demonstrated a fondness for Ella's brewed ale.

'A respectable trade,' smiled Yusuf, who hadn't drunk a single sip of ale that night.

'It’s certainly a flavoursome one,' replied Belin, who had drunk copious amounts.

'The boys are still young,' concluded Alain, 'but they'll be men soon and I'll give them the free-will to make their own choices. I'd rather they bed an experienced hand like Ella, who knows the remedies to avoid accidents, rather than straying to more naïve hands.' 

Alain had spoken blandly, but as he said it he fixed Salazar with a knowing gaze. The young wizard blushed and refused to meet the Lord of Avalon’s eyes, understanding that like Godric, Alain had noticed how Salazar's prying eyes lingered on the group of maids. Those who noticed stifled chuckles at Salazar’s expense. However, Hamon had neither the maturity nor sobriety to behave subtlety. He slapped his fellow squire on the back and laughed drunkenly at the other boy's misfortune until he yelped as a sharp kick stung his shins, visibly wilting beneath his father's stern gaze.

From there the feast's festivities began to subside, as jovial chatter descended into tired or drunken conversation. Others simply rested peaceably in the comfort of Avalon's warm atmosphere or drifted into a slumber caused by overindulgence of good food and potent ale.

Godric remained restless. Avalon was an extraordinarily different experience to what he'd been accustomed to in Black-Hollow's sombre halls. Sitting at the high table of an ancient dwelling in the presence of a mighty magnate and his fair lady, Godric was content to watch those who had welcomed him so effortlessly into their company. Belin and Yusuf were debating amicably together in a corner, the subject of which Godric could not understand. Hamon's head was drifting towards his trencher as ale and fatigue caught up with him. Bayard, soon unashamedly drunk, was loudly trying to raise enough coin to satisfy Ella's price by challenging anyone in proximity to an arm wrestle. Salazar, the boy who would be training to be a wizard alongside Godric, was content to sit and watch the dying flames of the hearth fire, fighting against the urge to glance at the gathered maids and further confirm Alain's suspicions.

Yet, the greatest difference lay with Alain and Morwenna themselves. The Lord and Lady of Avalon were wrapped in a world in which they were the sole inhabitants, laughing and talking together in indulgent and tender whispers. Sometimes Alain would trace a delicate finger over his wife's face, his steely eyes sparkling in wonder as if Morwenna was a figment of a brilliant dream and he barely dared to believe his good fortune. Morwenna looked at her husband with the same eyes, answering his touch with loving smiles. 

Soon they rose and bid their household hall good-night, disappearing towards the tower for the privacy of their marriage bed. Watching them go, Godric sighed in contentment. He would soon follow their example and seek out a bed for the night. The next dawn promised to begin a long and arduous road towards an unknown future and he would need his rest to meet the challenge head on. However, Godric wouldn’t retreat from the hall yet, for there was still enough time to extract a few more tales from a moping Salazar about the numerous wonders of Avalon.

Listening keenly as his friend began to regale him with more tales, Godric smiled as Black-Hollow and his suffering at his father’s hand were cast aside. For the first time in his life, Godric felt as if he belonged somewhere.


	6. Squire

Avalon, 1087

The sun shone high over the fields as the world around him clamoured with the sound of glorious battle. Bright flags flew high in the wind and armoured figures clashed in an epic contest of strength and will. Godric strode towards a tempest of struggling fighters, men roaring as gleaming swords clashed. The call of blaring horns rose over the uproar and Godric was eager to join the mass of fighting men before him; to prove that he was the doer of such heroic deeds that even the heroes of ancient legend would applaud his prowess. Godric felt no fear. Instead, courage dominated his heart as he swept past fallen figures veiled by the long grass.

'Avalon!' he shouted, 'Avalon.' Men answered his call, cheering him as he strode towards where the clamour of battle raged loudest. Godric beamed with the joy of battle. He was a warrior and he would prove it to all who doubted him.

A bright flash erupted at his feet. Godric stopped instantly, staring down at the scorched earth, the spell's magical residue still crackling. His breath suddenly caught in his throat and his heart froze. For amidst the mass of struggling bodies marched a dark figure. He was a monstrous man, towering above all who surrounded him. He approached out of the press of fighting men and Godric saw that he was clad from head to foot in a mail hauberk, whilst his face was hidden behind the mask of his helmet. He was drenched in blood and his shaded eyes were fixed on Godric. With one step after another, he thundered towards Godric, who seemed to shrink as he stared at the giant in horror. The sky darkened gloomily, and silence descended over the battlefield. Looking about him, Godric realised that the once sun-kissed greenery was now stained with blood. Corpses littered the ground, their faces contorted for eternity in agonised screams and discarded weapons lay about them. Swords, spears and shields lay broken and bloodied bones hewn long ago were strewn across the place of slaughter.

Godric was horrified by the brutality around him. He felt sickened by it, cowering in fear as the giant strode forwards, a wand and sword in the brute's hands and a malicious smile visible beneath the eyeless helm. The behemoth revelled in the chaos of the world around them, for he was a bringer of death; a killer of men. Godric's sword was suddenly heavy and he shrank away from the ghoulish creature, who began to laugh as he reached Godric, his sword rising and the wand cackling…

'Godric,' an irritated voice broke across the scene like thunder. Godric felt the sharp crack of a palm slapping the back of his head and his eyes were suddenly flung open. The monstrous, blood-soaked slayer was gone. In his place stood the scholarly Yusuf, who stared down at Godric in exasperation,

'Stupid boy,' he snapped impatiently. Godric blinked. Glancing to his side, he found Salazar smirking beside him. Embarrassed, Godric had the good sense to mumble a hasty apology.

'Daydreaming again,' Yusuf ranted, completely ignoring the boy’s apology, 'wasting my precious time. If you persist in this folly instead of listening to what I teach, then you'll be a poor excuse for a wizard and I'll be forever shamed.' Godric gulped, though not because of Yusuf's ramblings. He still felt unnerved by his dream. The horror of battle was thankfully gone, replaced by the warm confines of the castle's scriptoria, a small room built into a high tower which housed Avalon's vast library. Wisps of snow fluttered past the small window, although the chill of the winter's breeze didn't penetrate the tower's interior, which was kept at bay by a useful charm.

'I am the keeper of fabled works composed when the earliest and most ancient wizards walked this earth. The writings of Dzou Yen, Ptolemy, Hekate and the venerable Merlin are at my disposal. Yet, before my very eyes, an ignorant fool has the audacity to daydream during my lessons…my lessons!' He flung his hands in the air, sending his vibrant robes swirling around him. Salazar, who had been paying rapt attention to Yusuf's lecture as he always did, rolled his eyes at Yusuf's theatrics. Godric flushed, feeling guilty for his foolishness.

It wasn't that Godric found Yusuf's lessons boring. On the contrary, Godric found his time with the man enlightening. Much like Avalon itself, the library seemed to be brimming with untold tales. From the great, stone kelpie which guarded the library's door to the strange relics and trinkets scattered about the tower, Yusuf's self-proclaimed domain in Avalon was a treat for anyone with Godric’s vibrant imagination.

Yusuf was an interesting man. The scholar lived for the great manuscripts stored around them. As Alain had claimed and the nature of his lessons soon proved, Yusuf had a more thorough knowledge and understanding of the theories behind magic than any other wizard alive. He lectured with a passion and held up the scholars, poets and philosophers who had written these records in greater esteem than the warrior-heroes whom Godric idealised. Wise enough to realise this, Godric usually sat in silence as Yusuf spoke on and on about the mysteries of the wizarding world, although he never seemed as apt at understanding the old wizard’s teaching than Salazar and his mind would sometimes wander.

However, if the boys pestered him enough and he was feeling unusually generous, then Yusuf could be encouraged to tell tales of his extensive adventures travelling the world. Godric was often left astounded as Yusuf described images of exotic and far-flung lands. Born to a humble wizard and a merchant's daughter in Moorish Cordoba, he had set out to explore the world at a young age. He'd visited every corner of Christendom and had gone far beyond its borders. He'd sailed to the icy vastness across the northern seas and glimpsed a strange land beyond the fringes of those cold, ice-bound islands. To the south, he'd explored the mysteries of African mages and ha trudged along the silk roads to the exotic east, before returning over the vast grassy seas of the steppes which stretched out from Novgorod.

Yusuf conjured tales of the mightiest and most vile creatures and populated his stories with vivid memories of the strange people that Godric had ever heard of. Untold treasures he'd assembled filled the chamber, whilst the writings of famous wizards and witches from many cultures over thousands of years were now stored in Avalon. It was Yusuf's proudest achievement and it had brought the outlandish wizard to the Lord of Avalon's attention.

'Merlin boy,' Yusuf cried loudly, abruptly shaking a sheepish Godric from his internal musings. 'Twice he wallows in the realms of fancy rather than paying attention to me. That does it. You're both dismissed for the day. Come back tomorrow when you're prepared to listen. Go and waste someone else's time…' 

He waved his wand, flinging the library's door open with such force it rebounded off the stone kelpie with shuddering force. The two boys hastily retreated and as soon as they'd stepped across the threshold, the door thundered shut behind them. Godric and Salazar shared a look, before grinning sheepishly. Muffling their laughter so that they didn't entice Yusuf's wrath further, they descended the spiralling staircase and headed for the great hall.

'You've really pissed him off this time,' Salazar told him as Godric shrugged, 'I've been Lord Alain's squire for three years now and I've never seen him as pissed off as much as you have over the last four months.'

'You're such a saint,' Godric mumbled, prompting Salazar's grin to widen,

'What were you even daydreaming about this time?'

'Nothing much,'

'Knew it!' Salazar chuckled,

'You knew what?'

'I knew this would happen as soon as Morwenna started mentioning battles,' his friend stated and Godric grinned wryly in response.

Salazar was right. Morwenna had been lecturing Godric on the history of magical Ireland and the two rival schools of magic who struggled for supremacy over that ancient land; the nurturing school of Cliodhna and the warlike followers of Medb. Then she spoke of Clontarf, a fierce battle where the rival schools had united against the incursions of the foreign Seidr wizards and raiders. It was an epic clash, with the sea and land turning red with blood. It had also been a costly victory, with Muggle kings and many heroes falling alongside their enemies, but it was also a great blow for the Seidr warlocks and their sword-wielding kinsmen. The wizards of Tara regained their land, whilst the Seidr were driven into the sea. 

Godric's boyhood idealisation of war had been fired by the tale, although he remained woefully ignorant of the tragic consequences of battle. As the nature of his dream proved, this view had yet to leave him. Over the four months since Godric's arrival at Avalon, it had become well known that Godric aspired to be a knight and he would spend hours listening to a well-spun tales of heroic deeds. Salazar wasn't surprised that Godric's thoughts still dwelled on the subject.

'You should pay more attention to what Yusuf teaches you,'

'I do,' replied Godric. It was true and Godric respected Yusuf greatly and could usually keep his wandering daydreams at bay, 'I'm just tired. I'm still getting used to my duties.'

'Fair enough,' Salazar agreed as they reached the great hall, remembering with a grimace the exhaustion which had plagued the early months of his own arrival at Avalon. The two squires found the great hall mostly empty, the long tables which had been heaving with Avalon's inhabitants on the night of Alain's return sitting unused along the hall's far side. Only the servant Heloise remained, replacing the scented rushes used on the hall's floor. She barely spared the boys a glance, Salazar’s roguish smile lost upon her, which caused Godric to chuckle lightly. With the rare free time allotted to them, the boys decided to head to the kitchens to pilfer a meagre meal, a hard task to accomplish under Magge's all-seeing eyes.

In the four months since Godric came to Avalon, he had been constantly exhausted as he acclimatised to the inherent rigours and duties that marked the life of a squire. Every day was spent being given instructions in a range of skills which would help him fit into both the magical world and the Muggle realm.

Most of Godric's time was spent being educated by his triumvirate of teachers. Aside from Yusuf's lessons on far-flung cultures and magical theory, Godric was also being taught to read and write, not just in the dominant French and Latin vernaculars, but in a whole myriad of languages. Greek, Gaelic, Welsh, English and Nordic runes were also deemed to be important to a young wizard’s training. This gargantuan task fell to the monk Belin, who was a master in each. In the beginning, Godric had believed Belin's lessons would be tedious affairs. However, the monk was a cheerful and kindly character who was always willing to offer a wise word of advice. He was forever amicable and under his friendly guidance, Godric found himself steadily grasping an understanding of these languages. The rest of his magical education was left in Morwenna’s hands.

Godric could vividly remember his first lesson in Morwenna’s company. Alain's wife was a gentle and spiritual being with an extensive knowledge of the history of magical Britain and Godric had followed her from the castle to the gardens and glades of apple tree which surrounded the bailey's outer-wall. The aging woman who had been dozing at the high table throughout the welcoming feast turned out to be Lady Morwenna's personal handmaiden, Aelflaed, who had followed close behind in tranquil silence. They had soon reached a small clearing which housed an old stone bench, embroidered with vines. Rays of autumn sunshine wafted through overhanging branches filled with glowing apples. Perching on the bench, Morwenna had instructed Godric to sit on the soft grass by her feet.

'For most of the year, this secret glade will be your place of learning,' she informed him, 'I find that its tranquillity soothes the mind and refreshes the soul. Only in winter will we seek the warmth of the keep. Whilst here, I will strive to further your understanding of the histories of the magical cultures which have inhabited these islands. As your mind matures, we will approach the subtle arts which govern herbal and magical lore and develop your talents in potion-brewing and charms. Do you understand me?' 

Godric nodded dumbly as she leant down and picked up a ripe apple which had recently dropped from a tree. Smiling, she took a small bite from the fruit, her eyes closing momentarily in pleasure as her taste buds were assaulted by the succulent taste.

'Under my guidance, you will come to understand the secrets of the Isle of Apples,' She continued, 'Avalon has had a long history and has been ruled by mages who have served it for both good and ill. As a squire to my husband, many will expect you to know Avalon’s secrets. Tell me Godric, are you loyal to Lord Alain?'

Godric almost spluttered, taken aback by the probing question and her sudden, piercing tone.

'Of course, Lady,' he claimed instantly, feeling indignant that his loyalty would be questioned. Morwenna's eyes blazed fiercely as they met Godric’s own,

'Would you stay loyal to him,' she asked, 'even if another promised you your heart's desire?'

'Yes,' he replied firmly with only briefest hesitation.

'What if it was a friend who demanded that you betray him, or maybe a king?' She inquired relentlessly, giving the boy no quarter.

'I'd remain loyal…'

'Even if your father demanded it?' This made Godric pause. His father? The man whose approval he had yearned for all his life; the man who had beaten him to the threshold of death and who's abusive clutches Alain had so charitably plucked him from. Would Godric really betray the man who had saved him and who had brought him to Avalon if his father desired it?

'I owe my life to my uncle,' said Godric clearly, 'I will not betray him!'

For a moment all was silent and Morwenna's features remained expressionless and cold. Then her face split into the most radiant smile Godric had ever received. Her eyes glistened with unshed emotion as she looked at Godric with unmasked relief. Jarringly, it reminded Godric of his mother.

'I never believed otherwise,' she admitted softly, 'and I apologise for my behaviour. It was unseemly. However, I had to ask, to ease my own fears.' Godric, who had initially felt indignant at Morwenna's inquisition, felt sympathy stir within his heart for Morweena, who despite her severe and elegant countenance, was still a wife who feared for her beloved husband. 

'Promise me,' she pressed on, 'that you will stay loyal to Alain?'

'I swear it, Lady,' Godric responded adamantly, this time without a pause.

'You have a good heart Godric. I understand your loyalty is based on gratitude. Your uncle is a great man. I wouldn't love him if he wasn't. Alain has always seen potential in people, even in those who do not see it in themselves. It's what draws us all to him. I hope that one day your loyalty will go beyond gratitude to become love.'

Since that morning, Godric and Morwenna's bond had grown stronger. In her lessons, she spoke about all the traditions of magic. Godric soon learned of the heroic and dark wizards of ancient Greece, from Andros the Invincible and Falco Aesalon to Orpheus and Herpo the Foul. She told him how all-powerful witches such as Medea, Circe and Hekate, 'the Queen of Ghosts', had founded ancient schools of magic which still explored the mysteries of the light and dark arts. He was told how the Roman wizards were masters at merging their magic with the foundations of their great architectural structures, weaving wards into the stone so powerful that their residue could still be felt lying dormant in the ancient achievements whose pilfered remains lay scattered across Britain.

Yet, Morwenna did not stop with the wizards of antiquity. Godric discovered how the legions and mages of Rome had almost succeeded in obliterating the native traditions of the Britons when they ransacked the sacred places of the druids. Only with the coming of Merlin centuries later did these traditions prosper from a revival which still influenced Britain. 

Furthermore, together they explored the diverse histories of Britain’s magical people, from the wild ways of the Gaelic warlocks and otherworldly arts of tattooed northern hedge-wizards, to the blunt and battle-hardened practices of the English and Welsh. Morwenna had little to say about the seers who were afflicted with strange dreams foretelling future events. Even wizards were wary of prophecies, disparaging them as either flights of fancy or dangerous tools in games of power. To have the sight was to be cursed for life. 

Having suffered torment at the hands of bullying Churchmen, Godric was surprised to discover that some wizards were devout followers of Muggle gods. More astonishingly, some wizards still clung to the ancient pagan ways, abiding by the customs and bloody rituals which had once been practiced across the whole of Britain. The most venerated of these was the Great Mother, a deity of water, wind, fire and the earth, who was still worshipped by mysterious cults and covens. These included the Fae-Whisperers, maidens who danced and feasted in the Great Mother’s honour and the feared Children of Hilda, barbaric shape-shifters who sprang from woodland dwellings and led great hunts to terrorise the common folk. However, more wizards like Alain were forsaking all the gods of men, choosing to believe in their magic to forge their own fates rather than trusting in any divine power. 

Finally, there were the traditions which hailed from Scandinavia, brought to Britain by the warriors and wizards who had raided Britain’s windswept coast for centuries. These were the Seidr, great masters of war and transfiguration, who had sailed across the northern seas to bring terror to Britain. They had a brutal reputation and a penchant for the dark arts, performing violent rituals like the grisly blood-eagle where they used spells to carve their victims into bloody ruin before spreading their innards in offering to their pagan gods. This magical tradition had once plagued Britain before it was supplanted by the flowering wizardry of the Normans. Alain had been amongst the first Norman wizards to sail with William of Normandy in his conquest and had faced the Seidr in battle. Godric marvelled at how such a fearsome power could have been defeated. 

'What happened to them?' Godric had asked one winter's day. It was a week before Christmas and they had been forced to seek out the keep to escape the winter’s snow, 'to the Seidr?' 

'They still exist, although their grip on Britain is broken,' Morwenna explained, 'they still hoard power in the islands to the west and north of Scotland, supported by their kinsmen across the sea. The Battle of Clontarf destroyed their hold on Ireland and they were weakened by the fall of Hardrada and his army in battle. However, they managed to retain power in the north for a short while after, but their influence was all but ruined during the Harrying…'

'The Harrying?'

'A terrible war between the Norman and Seidr wizards. Your uncle survived those battles, as did Hugh. I will not speak of it. If you wish to sate your curiosity, then I would encourage you to approach them. But heed this warning; neither likes to dwell on that time. The Harrying took place long before they arrived in Avalon, when they were both young and different men. It was a brutal experience which has scarred them both.'

Godric could only nod and wisely accept her advice. Although his confidence had grown since his arrival in Avalon, he lacked the courage to probe deeper into an event which had profoundly marked the two men.

Godric soon grew fond of Morwenna. Some of his favourite memories were of the peace of mind this tranquil environment gave him, simply listening to Morwenna's gentle voice or the sound of Aelflaed sitting to side with her distaff, spinning wool with an ever-contented smile. Amongst most of the inhabitants of Avalon, Morwenna was known for possessing a compassionate nature. But to Godric and Salazar, Morwenna extended a motherly devotion that was needed and appreciated by both. Not once had she raised her voice, although she was prepared to scold them if they misbehaved. After capturing Salazar flirting with her maids, she had taken him aside and whispered a warning in his ear. From Salazar's unusually pale complexion and how he had a habit of wincing when a maid crossed their path, Godric could only assume that it had been a threat detailing the repercussions of such a venture masked as a thinly veiled scolding. After all, Godric was sure that it was a smirk Morwenna had hidden behind her hand when she next spotted Salazar unsubtly attempting to avoid her.

Walking beside Salazar, Godric smiled fondly at the pleasant memories as he was led to Avalon’s stables, where laying on the straw amongst the beasts was a familiar tawny haired youth. He was dosing peaceful, unaware that he'd been discovered ignoring his duties. A sharp kick to the arse brought him swiftly out of his slumber.

'I'm awake,' he stuttered, disorientated,

'You're a lazy shit, Hamon,' Salazar replied unsympathetically, leaning against the horse's stall Hamon had been ordered to clean and had only half completed.

'Had a large breakfast,' he shrugged ruefully,

'Merlin, all you do is sleep and eat!'

'Not always,' Hamon said with a knowing smile. His appetite and ability to sleep anywhere was famous in Avalon, as was his good-humoured nature, 'besides, it gets boring when you two are learning magic and all that weird stuff.' 

Godric felt the familiar stirring of sympathy for Hamon and a glance at an uneasy Salazar only reinforced it. It must have been lonely for the sociable Hamon when he was forced to complete his duties alone without Godric and Salazar to accompany him. Unlike his companions, Hamon was a Muggle and so was barred from joining them their magical lessons. Despite this, Godric had never once heard Hamon complain about the circumstances of his birth.

'Anyway,’ Hamon chirped curiously, ‘aren't you two supposed to be with Yusuf?'

'We were,' Salazar replied, eying Godric in amusement. Hamon understood instantly and laughed aloud,

'Daydreaming again?' Hamon chuckled, smiling at Godric’s sheepish grimace,

'I can't blame you. Was it another battle? I bet you looked glorious, using your sword to smite your enemies and making the fair maidens cry out in wonder at your prowess.' 

'I suppose,' Godric lied, the image of a towering, bloodied figure flashing through his mind. Once again, he felt unnerved by the strange quality of his dream.

'Thought so,' Hamon said smugly, 'I'd watch that head of yours Godric, you might be good with a sword, for an amateur, but if you start thinking you're a paladin, you'll look in mirror one morning and see Salazar's ugly face staring back. I don't think Lord Alain could afford another Palace of Mirrors.'

'Oi!' snapped Salazar as Godric laughed at Hamon's mocking name for Salazar's small chamber and his fabled collection of mirrors.

'We've got some free time before we have to go to the tiltyard,' said Godric, tactfully defusing the situation before Hamon’s jests could provoke an angry response from Salazar.

'Brilliant, give me a hand with this and I'll come with you.' Godric was more than willing to help Hamon, who had proved to be a decent friend. He was perpetually good-natured and always ready to help Godric acclimatise to his tasking duties. Grumbling quietly, Salazar joined them. This was often how they spent their time together and the three boys had developed a strong bond. Their sleeping quarters were situated in the same tower and they had grown accustomed to sharing the responsibility of serving Alain. If required, they would help him dress, bring him food or wine and help care for his arms and animals. Under Salazar and Hamon's tutorage, Godric learned how to serve the high table during the day's communal meal, how to clean Alain's mail hauberk by persistently scrubbing it in a sand barrel and how to care for Alain's hounds, hawks, and horses. In addition, Godric brought a thirst to succeed to every task and which flourished most of all in Avalon’s tiltyard.

Wandering across the bailey, Godric could feel the familiar bubbling excitement which welled within him every time he neared the tiltyard. The arena was already crowded, as it always was when Alain's retainers were home. Hugh's word was law in the tiltyard and he led a fearsome regime of daily practice. Standing to the side, he barked orders and advice at all who participated. If one person believed that they were skilled and experienced enough to demand a break, then Hugh would stride into the arena and face them himself. It always ended the same way, with Hugh still standing and his opponent whimpering and nursing sore wounds. 

Godric was in awe of Hugh Troll-bane, for in the castellan he saw the martial prowess of bygone heroes. Hugh was a master of war, capable of using lance, bow, axe and a multitude of other weapons. Yet, his strongest expertise lay in the sword. With a sword in his hand, Hugh was unbeatable in battle and could often be seen striding about Avalon with his mighty blade strapped to his back. The sword was a beautifully crafted weapon which had served him well throughout his battle-hardened life.

Godric's first lesson under Hugh's tutelage was burned into his memory. It occurred at dawn during his first week in Avalon and he was still exhausted when he had been ordered to take hold of a large stick, roughly shaped like a sword. Unaccustomed to the stick's considerable weight and holding it awkwardly, Godric had cautiously entered a small arena. He was soon followed by Hugh, who also carried a large staff. Avalon's castellan had glared at the boy,

'Ready yourself,' he had growled and before Godric's eyes could widen Hugh leapt at him. The stick flashed through the air and with a crack, Hugh had landed a stinging blow to Godric's left arm with enough force to send the boy reeling. Godric couldn't stop the cry of pain that escaped him but hastily bit his lip to silence it. He stumbled back, his arm numbed by the blow. Hugh gave him enough time to right himself before coming at him again, his staff hissing as it whirled through the air.

This time, Godric raised his own staff to defend himself. There was a crack as wood met wood before a sudden pain exploded across his stomach. He'd barely registered Hugh's second stroke, which swung under the boy's guard with dazzling speed and forced the breath from his body. Godric crashed to the ground, wheezing painfully. Standing over him, Hugh shook his head at the boy' dismal display. Glancing up, Godric saw contempt in the man's eyes. He felt his anger rise and the demon reared its head, barring its teeth fiercely.

Godric’s jaw clenched determinedly before struggling to his feet, ignoring his aching body as a murmur ran through the watching retinue. Saying nothing, Godric shifted into a prepared position, his staff held up before him and waiting for the oncoming onslaught. Hugh carried on watching him for a moment, then sprang into an attack.

Their sparring was short-lived, but this time, Godric survived long enough to trade several blows with the castellan before he was forced to the ground, his head spinning after Hugh had rapped him across the back of the head. Godric couldn't believe how fast Hugh was. For such a large figure, the man was incredibly nimble on his feet, darting past any danger to deliver a blow with the speed of a striking snake. After putting Godric down twice in as many minutes, Hugh simply turned and began to stride away.

However, he stopped short when he saw Godric struggling to his feet again. The boy had shaken his head to clear it, before regaining his posture and readying himself for Hugh's next attack. He didn't register the murmur of approval that escaped those watching him. He had eyes only for Hugh, who after briefly blinking in surprise, came at the boy in a flurry of blows.

Time and time again, Godric was driven down into the dirt. Each time, he found the willpower to return to his feet. Slowly, he began to trade more blows with the warrior before he was beaten and to his surprise he discovered that he was able to judge Hugh's intentions, although his body was still too slow to act in time to defeat Hugh's stinging blows. 

'Enough,' Hugh eventually barked, after Godric had gotten shakily back to his feet following the eighth bruising beating he had received. He stared at the boy for a long while.

'You have bravery, boy,' he told Godric, 'and you learn quickly. Eat well, train hard and let your strength build. Then we'll face each other again.'

Godric had been dismissed into Bayard's hands. Le Boar was many things; uncouth, wild and troublesome. But he was also a fearsome and canny soldier who had many tricks at his disposal. For months, Bayard put Godric through a regime of punishing ideals. Every day, the boy would hack and thrust at a man-sized wooden stake, learning to imitate the strokes of a sword until his muscles ached from the exertion. He was exercised in both swordplay and horsemanship, becoming accustomed to handling a lance by first running at a target and then mimicking the action on horseback. Bayard also taught him the devilish tricks of the sword trade, ruses which whilst incredibly ignoble, could one day save the boy's life. Surprisingly, Godric excelled at it and pushed his body to exhaustion to meet both Bayard and Hugh's high demands, throwing himself into his training with youthful abandon and never complaining that any task was too difficult to accomplish. Broken bones followed torn muscles and bruised limbs, but each injury was quickly healed by Morwenna's magic and the next day would see Godric return to the tiltyard, eager to improve and not commit the same mistakes again.

Today, Hugh saw the trio of squires approaching the tiltyard long before they finally reached it.

'You're early?'

'Yusuf released us and Hamon has completed his duties,' Salazar explained, conveniently glossing over the real reason. Hugh wasn't fooled, judging by the knowing look he levelled at Godric. Nevertheless, he let it pass and allowed them to prepare for the day's training. However, as Godric started towards Bayard, he discovered Hugh standing in his way.

'Not today,' the castellan said, gesturing for Godric to follow him into the arena, 'today you face me.' 

Godric barely had time to register his growing nerves. Hugh had witnessed most of his training bouts, only ever missing them when his duty as Alain's closest companion drew him away from Avalon. Godric was sure the castellan was aware of his progress already, but a loud call drew his attention back to Hugh. 

'Prepare yourself.' Then Hugh was there, leaping towards him with his heavy staff descending towards the boy's head. But this time, Godric's staff rose to parry it aside. Hugh recovered quickly, flicking his wrist to sweep the staff around and hack at Godric's leg. It only met empty air, for Godric danced nimbly away. Again, Godric had no time to attempt his own attack. Hugh came at him with a flurry of blows and Godric was able to evade them all, saving his energy and content to defend. His eyes were locked on Hugh and he wasn’t plagued by a lapse in his concentration. The persistent drills he'd suffered through were proving fruitful. When Hugh sprang forward with another attack, Godric soon discovered he could anticipate the older man's next strike. His mind worked at lightning speed, processing Hugh's stance, the fluidity in which he wielded the staff and supplying him with the means to turn it to his own advantage.

Godric parried once, twice and then stepped aside from a fierce thrust that rushed past his body. He saw an opening, for Hugh had miraculously misjudged his blow, overextending and leaving his side open to attack. Godric, his heart thundering, hacked at Hugh with all the strength he could muster. 

Then everything turned black…

When he opened his eyes, Godric was lying where he had fallen. Shaking his head to clear his blurred vision, he found Hugh looming over him.

'You've improved,' the knight conceded. Godric grimaced at a sudden pain, quickly realising that his right hand was swollen and throbbing with agony. Hugh, after spinning aside from Godric's wild attack, had rapped his knuckles with a well-aimed strike which clattered against Godric's sword-hand with enough force to break bones. He'd followed through with a merciless clout to the head, rendering the boy unconscious before he could even acknowledge what was happening. Watching him now, Hugh couldn’t hide the disappointment which laced his voice.

'Go to the healers,' Hugh advised him, dismissing him with a turn of his back. Anger boiled up in Godric as he scowled at the retreating figure.

'No,' Godric suddenly spat. Hugh was forced to face him again, finding the foolish boy positioned in a fighting stance.

'Don't be a fool,' Hugh said harshly. Godric ignored him, simply swapping the staff from his broken hand to his left. He didn't utter a word. Hugh remained still for a moment longer, judging the situation. Then he was charging forward, the intent to do damage shining in his eyes. He hacked at Godric, who dodged again. Another attack caused the boy to step hastily back. Then Hugh lunged. It was a killing thrust, a blow which if they had been using swords would have speared the boy on its tip. But only if it landed; for Godric had kept his balance and parried it away with a flick of his wrist. His blow was clumsy, but it had the strength to turn the staff aside.

For the briefest moment, Godric saw surprise flash across Hugh's eyes. It was gone as soon as it appeared, replaced by another thrust both faster and more powerful than the last. Again, it was knocked away by Godric, who hastened to raise the staff to protect himself from a third strike.

Yet, Hugh didn't press his attack. Instead, he backed away and stared at Godric oddly,

'How long have you been able to use both hands?'

'Since I was young,' Godric shrugged,

'Why didn't you mention this?'

'I didn't think it was important…'

'Have you been practicing alone?' Hugh inquired. Godric nodded,

'I've sparred with Hamon and Salazar,' the boy admitted, his face turning as red as his hair. He often beseeched the other boys to spar with him in the privacy of their sleeping quarters. Hamon would readily agree. After all, Hugh was his father and he often strained to be worthy of his father's respect. Hamon was a formidable opponent, his older age gifting him an initial advantage over Godric; but it was an advantage which decreased with each passing day. Salazar would usually watch on with disapproval and only after excessive coaxing could he be persuaded to participate. The oldest squire was a tricky and challenging opponent, who if underestimated, could suddenly strike as quickly as any serpent. Sadly, he was not enthusiastic about wielding a sword. He was competent enough, but as a wizard, he saw little benefit in mastering Muggle weaponry.

'Bayard,' Hugh called to his comrade, 'did you know of this?' 

'No,' Bayard confessed, having watched the bout from the side-lines, although he wasn't angry. He was grinning broadly through his bushy beard. Hugh grunted and remained deep in thought long after he dismissed Godric from the ring and ordered Salazar and Hamon to replace him.

'Feel better?' asked Isolde a little while later. The witch had approached Godric shortly after she had concluded her own mock-duel with Hadrian. She seemed to have noticed Godric's discomfort at the pain throbbing from his swollen hand and removing her wand from a sleeve, she tapped it once whilst muttering a spell. A warm feeling had shot through Godric and to his surprise, his broken hand had fully healed. Isolde smirked at his expression, dismissing his thanks with a wave of her hand,

'She’s the healer of Lord Alain's retinue,' Hadrian informed him, before kindly praising Godric’s efforts against Hugh, 'I’d trust her to heal me even if I lay at death’s threshold. You did well out there?'

'Not well enough,' Godric responded sulkily, flexing his tingling fingers.

'No one does well against Hugh,' Hadrian chuckled ruefully, 'he battered me into the ground the first time we crossed swords and hurt me even more when I tried to draw a wand against him. For someone so young you did remarkably well.'

'Mm' grumbled Godric, clearly unconvinced.

‘I’m telling the truth,' Hadrian insisted, stretching aching muscles, 'few men survive long in a fight against Hugh. It’s true that he was holding back against you, but you're only a boy and Hugh's too honourable to dismiss that.'

'Great,' Godric grunted, his frown deepening. He'd assumed that Hugh was holding back, but to have it confirmed diluted what little confidence he had gained in his own abilities over the previous months. Hadrian seemed to realise her mistake and rectified it quickly,

'You've impressed him,' he reassured the boy, 'and Hugh is rarely impressed by anything. Don't be downhearted.' Hadrian clapped his back, smiled and then walked away. Godric sat in silence, brooding quietly as he thought over Hadrian’s last remarks. He was so focused on his internal musings that he didn't see Isolde and Hadrian sharing a quiet word with Hugh until he realised that the castellan was towering over him.

'You've probably already heard the tale of how I fought a troll,' Hugh said, bending down to sit beside the sulking boy. Godric nodded carefully. The usually reserved Troll-bane rarely ventured into conversation, let alone mentioned his greatest and most heroic feat. However, Godric had already heard a garbled account of the tale from Bayard and even that unruly brute couldn't hide his admiration for the achievement.

'It was twice the size of a man, with the strength of a dozen bulls and the fury of a berserk,' Hugh stated casually, 'the vile creature should have killed me. It almost did, as I was not left unscathed. This mark here,' he paused to draw his longsword from its scabbard and lay on his lap, pointing at a deep notch in the blade. 'That is a scar made when my sword met the troll's club. No matter how often I sharpen the blade, that notch remains. Smiths, whetstones and even magic cannot get rid of it. Yet, in the end, I stopped trying to remove it, for it reminds me that I walked away from a trial by battle with my life intact whilst my opponent did not.

‘If you are to become a knight,’ Hugh muttered darkly, ‘then listen carefully to what I tell you. Swordplay comes naturally to me and I was blessed by God with a skill for it. But to be ready for that battle with the troll and to come away the victor was only because I trained hard. I was dedicated to training my body to cope with the pressures of being the best a knight can be, and I practiced with a stick until my arms were strong enough to wield a sword with ease and lightning speed. I mastered my weapons and learned how to fight, from how to outsmart an opponent to how to dance with a sword, remaining mobile when others grew weary. All this I will expect from you in the years to come.’

'What do you mean?' asked a dumbfounded Godric,

'Isn't it obvious,' Hugh said gruffly, 'your training will now be in my hands. Bayard has taught you the basics well and you would be a fool to discard the dirty tricks you have learned from him. You have potential, boy, more so than I'd wager you realise. I’d be a dishonourable man if I didn’t help you realise it.'

'What does it mean?’ Godric inquired, ‘being able to use my left hand as well as my right?'

'It means you're ambidextrous,' Hugh told him, 'it's a rare skill which enables you to use both hands equally well. For an aspiring knight, it can be forged into a great weapon. The ability to swap hands can confuse an enemy and will enable you to strike from all directions. In the hands of a Fae-knight, it means that you have potential to be a Dual-wielder!'

'A Dual-wielder?'

'The ability to use both wand and sword simultaneously. It's an exceedingly difficult discipline to master. I can't do it; though it would have been useless for me to try as I have no magic to call my own. However, Lord Alain made me swear to train you to the best of your abilities and I will never betray his trust, let alone break a promise to a man I’ve sworn to serve. No matter what that rogue Bayard claims, I am the most experienced knight in Avalon. With the promise you have displayed today, then maybe you could hold that title one day!'


	7. The Wandmaker

Winter had arrived by the time the strange pilgrim arrived in Avalon. Godric had been sharing a communal evening meal with the rest of Alain's household when the great hall's wooden doors creaked open and a stranger limped in, flanked by Alain and Hugh. The Lord of Avalon had heard the Ferryman's call, which signalled that a stranger ignorant of Avalon's secret wards had requested entry. They had entered the marshes immediately, only returning once they had led the stranger through the mists to Avalon's snowy summit.

The stranger bore a thick travelling cloak clasped to his shoulder by a golden brooch depicting an olive branch. Long silver hair hung in a braid down his back and pale eyes darted about the hall, bringing light to the contented smile which flickered at his lips. Beaming brightly, Morwenna leaped to her feet at the stranger's arrival. All conversation was silenced as the Lady of Avalon descended from the high table to meet the newcomer to her hall.

‘Thibault,' she welcomed him with an embrace, 'it warms my heart to see you again!'

'Lady Morwenna,' the man replied, smiling back, 'it is always the most resplendent of pleasures to be in your company.' 

'You have a courtier's tongue,' Morwenna laughed with a faint blush, 'I am glad you have answered my husband's call. Come and break bread with us, you must be tired and half-starved from your travels.' Lambert, Alain's fastidious steward, was already by their side to take Thibault's cloak. Politely thanking the steward, Thibault followed Morwenna to the high table, where he was honoured with a seat beside the Lord and Lady of Avalon. The responsibility of serving him fell to Alain's three squires, who performed their duties with well-practiced ease whilst the stranger talked to Alain and Morwenna in hushed tones and was treated like an honoured guest.

'I hoped my message had reached you,' admitted Alain as Thibault began to wolf down his meal, 'it’s late in the year and I know that your family prefers to conduct its travels to warmer climates during the winter.’

'The Ollivander's have always preferred warmer climates,' Thibault replied with a smile, 'we only reached these cold shores when my ancestors fought beside legions of Rome. Fortunately, I received the message during an unfortunate meeting with a veela near Constantinople. I was investigating some intriguing rumours I'd heard about how the hair of a veela could be used as a wand core.'

'You were lucky to escape,' chastised Morwenna sternly, 'veela have a formidable reputation.'

'Alas, I admit to being woefully unprepared for the meeting. But I still escaped with my life, albeit with singed skin and a bruised ego. However, I did manage to prove the rumours right, although their wands certainly have a temperamental nature. After that, I was more than happy to cut my travels short. It’s not often that the Lord of Avalon seeks your aid.'

'Indeed,' Alain smiled, watching Thibault shove bread drenched with broth into his mouth, 'I have recently acquired a young squire, a boy who shares my blood and is in dire need of his own wand. I would have provided one for him, but my steward Lambert informs me that Avalon's stores are empty of spares.'

'A good thing,' scoffed Thibault, 'a wand is next to useless unless it has a real bond with the wizard who uses it. I've told you before, Lord, that it is the wand…’

‘Which chooses the wizard,' conceded Alain, ‘I remember.’

'It was the young Slytherin boy wasn't it,' continued Thibault, glancing at the youth in question, who was listening attentively to their conversation, 'Yew and Hydra vein, a very peculiar and rare combination, especially for a wizard’s first wand. I wonder if your latest apprentice will be as unique.'

Later that evening, Alain, Godric, Salazar and Thibault adjourned to the privacy of Yusuf's tower. The latter cackled at the thought of wayward magic, a common phenomenon during a wizard's first wand acquisition, flying around in what he described as that vagabond Moor's haven of historical nonsense.

'I apologise that my arrival was delayed,' Thibault ranted as they strode past the stone Kelpie, 'but I had to stop at my homestead on the way here and select a few choice wands for this. Which was an absolute nightmare. Rivals are popping up everywhere, sensing that they can make some gold off those patrons who have made us rich. The bloody road they’ve trudged up through our fields isn’t even straight. We’ll have goblins living there next!'

'No apology required, old friend,' Alain replied genially. Thibault smiled his thanks, before conjuring a ragged-looking bundle to appear on one of Yusuf's long benches, accidently toppling over a carefully sorted pile of ancient manuscripts and scrolls, much to the wandmaker's amusement. Flourishing his wand again, the bundle rolled open to reveal a hoard of unblemished wands. Beckoning Godric over with a wave, he ushered the boy forwards until Godric stood beside him. He gave the boy a long, curious look,

'So, you're the Flamebearer’s nephew? It is surprising that I have heard nothing of your existence. The fact that the Lord of Avalon had taken a new apprentice, especially one related by blood, would usually be on the lips of most of the magical community…'

'I saw fit to keep his existence a secret, as I did for Salazar at his age!' explained Alain, 'to keep him out of harm's way'

'From your enemies or his?'

'Both,' replied Alain carefully.

'Curious,' Thibault thought aloud, 'to have enemies so young. Tell me, boy, do you know of me?'

'You are Master Thibault Ollivander,' Godric replied uncertainly,

'Correct,’ the newcomer confirmed, ‘and the purpose of my visit?'

'To help me choose a wand. You're a wandmaker.' 

Thibault nodded, stroking his clean-shaven chin,

'For over a thousand years, the Ollivanders have been counted amongst the greatest wandmakers in the magical world. My ancestors crafted the wands which overthrew the scourge of Carthage and helped Rome build its empire. For centuries, we have brought light, no matter how dimly it burns, to a dark world, travelling abroad and questing into the wilds in our search for powerful and obscure wand cores. My name is Thibault Ollivander, the latest of that line. I have fought alongside the Order of Merlin, feasted with the Adites of the Sandy Plains and have befriended some of the most fearsome and spectacular creatures known to wizards,’ Thibault turned his unblinking gaze on Godric, ‘now, tell me about yourself?’

Godric felt unnerved by the sudden shift in focus. He glanced at Alain, who urged him to respond with a reassuring smile.

'I am Godric,’ he finally stuttered, ‘once of Black-Hollow, but now a squire in Lord Alain's household. I am noble-born to a Saxon father and a Norman mother…'

'You are descended from Saxon blood?' inquired Thibault pondered curiously, 'that is interesting, there are few Saxon families left who practice the magical arts. Your uncle and others like him saw to that.' 

He sent Alain a disapproving look, who looked unmoved by the sudden barb.

'He is the son of my half-sister,' Alain replied firmly, 'it is likely that the blood we share is the source of his magic.'

‘Magic is still a mystery to us, Lord. It can lay dormant for centuries within a bloodline, only to suddenly sprout in the most unlikely of places,' Thibault suddenly clapped his hands together, 'alas, that is a conversation for another time. Excellent, so you have both Saxon and Norman blood. A potent brew, boy, which should make for a very intriguing choice of wand.'

The wandmaker gestured at the assembled wands before grabbing hold of Godric's hand and pulling it forwards until it hovered over them.

'Hold your hand out,' Thibault instructed briskly, 'stop being so cautious boy, you're not a virgin in a brothel! It's only a wand. That's right, now, trace your hand over the wands. Like this…' Godric followed every outlandish command that Thibault gave him, his outstretched hand hovering over each of the offered wands. Nothing happened.

'What am I supposed to be looking for?' Godric eventually asked impatiently, his bemusement giving way to frustration. Thibault turned to look at him, his brow creasing in a frown.

'You are looking for a bond,’ the wandmaker advised, ‘by tracing your hand over the wands, you are attempting to sense a fellowship, as if the wand you touch is not merely an instrument, but an extension of yourself.'

Godric nodded, focusing on finding the best match. However, as night descended, it was impossible for Godric not to feel disheartened. His hand went from wand to wand, yet only a meagre few spoke out to him and that was only a brief flutter. Bundle after bundle was tested, but it was all for nothing. Both Alain and Salazar offered their advice, but the results remained the same.

'Are you sure he's magical?' Thibault finally asked Alain in a hushed voice. Salazar was currently standing at Godric's side, trying to ease his friend's growing frustrations. The wandmaker found it all thoroughly intriguing and began to wonder if he had ever witnessed such a prolonged wand choosing. 

'Godric’s had a difficult upbringing,’ explained Alain, ‘he just needs time to build his confidence. Salazar once saw him force Robert of Bellême away with nothing more than wandless magic…'

'The Bellême?' spluttered Thibault incredulously,

'The very same.'

'Then I must be wrong,' mused the wandmaker, 'you have two apprentices of great potential, Lord.'

'I believe so,' Alain agreed proudly, watching his squires closely.

'Speaking of Bellême,' Thibault whispered, 'there have been whispers of rebellion.'

‘Rumours of rebellion often concern Bellême. You can tell you're a merchant, old friend, with such an ear for gossip. Have no fear, both the King and I am aware of it.’ 

'Then you know that the rebellion will fail. This new King is too strong to be forced to his knees by a foolish brother and a few discontented barons. Any fool knows this and Bellême, despite his many faults, is no fool.' 

Alain stared at Thibault for a long moment,

'What are you implying?'

‘A merchant see’s more than most, Lord. Bellême knows this rebellion will fail, but its effect on our world may be subtler than we anticipate. Britain is divided, despite the fragile peace your wand once won. I fear that a spider lurks in the dark, ready to topple Britain into chaos with one pluck of a thread. I will remain neutral of course, for war does terrible things to a merchant’s business.’

‘A spider?’ Alain breathed softly, his face half hidden in the shadows cast by the flickering candlelight.

‘You know who it is I speak of?’

‘I do,’ Alain growled, ‘but surely she cannot return to Britain? The She-Wolf was exiled long ago, her hands stained with the blood of innocents.’

‘Yet, she will,’ Thibault replied warningly, ‘the She-Wolf will sense that Britain is fractured and the Wizengamot weakened, lacking the power to stop her return.’

‘If I can hinder it then I will,’ Alain replied, 

‘But others won’t,’ Thibault sighed, ‘although she may not be influenced by power at all. I’ve heard a rumour that she’s searching for something; an ancient treasure which was once housed in Avalon. It’s a relic they call the Cauldron of Rebirth…’

‘I have heard of it,’ Alain frowned, ‘I thought it was merely an invention of clever poets? If it was once stored in Avalon, then it is here no longer.’

‘It could be anywhere,’ Thibault agreed, ‘Rome looted many of the riches once idealised by druidic shamans. I even met a eunuch in Constantinople who spoke of a war being fought between goblins and dragons over a hoard of ancient treasures. This Cauldron could be lost amongst them. However, the She-Wolf thinks its here and she is a dangerous woman to cross paths with.’

‘I’ll heed your warning,’ Alain said, ‘and I will speak of it to Morwenna. She has lived in Avalon longer than any of us. Perhaps she knows something of this Cauldron.’

‘Seek counsel from the Fae-Whisperers,’ Thibault advised, ‘they’re said to have the Sight and still revere ancient relics.’

‘I could send a message to Nolwen,’ Alain replied, glancing at the wandmaker, ‘I gather Nolwen is still holding a grudge against you for that incident with one of her maidens?’

The wandmaker looked rather abashed at this, 

‘That ridiculous woman can hold a grudge for longer than any goblin when her maidens have been touched. Alas, we mere mortals are not as fortunate as you.’

‘I am truly blessed,’ Alain chuckled knowingly,

‘You’re a lucky bastard to have the love of the Lady of Avalon,’ the wandmaker smirked wryly, ‘can you work the same enchantments for me?’

‘Not even a thousand enchantments would work, you lecherous fiend. Besides, no charm was used. It was an unlooked-for blessing which I was fortunate enough to stumble upon.’

‘Pah,’ Thibault scoffed, ‘when I stumble it ends with curses and threats to castrate me, not the love of a beautiful woman.’

‘You’re an outrageous man,’ Alain smirked, before his expression turned grim, ‘so you think that she will return?’

‘Almost certainly,’ the wandmaker sighed, ‘Gofanon the Wise is old and his influence wains. You, Lord, are the Council’s youngest member, despite being well past forty years. Honestly, I fear for Britain. The sun is setting on the old ways, our ways. A new era approaches; one which will need new blood to lead it.’

A frowning Thibault did not turn his gaze away from where the pair of young wizards squabbled over the wands and remained ignorant of the concerns being voiced by their elders. Suddenly, Alain grabbed the wandmaker’s arm in an iron grip and looked at the man sharply. 

‘Your counsel is always welcome, old friend,’ Alain said, ‘but I would appreciate it if you do not mention my past again, especially in the presence of my squires.’

‘Why not?’ Thibault shot back, ‘surely it is better that they hear the truth from you, Lord?’

‘They are still young,’ Alain replied peevishly, ‘and the Harrying was a dark time. Too dark for children to understand…’

‘They were dark days,’ the wandmaker conceded, ‘but are you so sure that it is not shame for your past deeds which motivates you?’

‘Careful, Thibault,’ Alain suddenly growled warningly, his eyes flashing angrily, ‘even our long friendship will not stop me from finding wands from other sources. Yusuf tells me that the Adites are the greatest wandmakers in the world. Perhaps my gold would be better spent elsewhere?’

‘They are impressive,’ Thibault admitted grudgingly, ‘but, your Moor exaggerates. However, you’d have to find one first. They’re a notoriously difficult people to find and I was only lucky enough to blunder into one of their marauding caravans. No man from Christendom has found their lost city for over a generation.’

‘Avalon is an alluring and sacred place,’ Alain replied, ‘and many wizards dream of coming here. I’m sure even the Adites would want to probe Avalon’s secrets.’

‘There speaks a man who has never befriended an Adite,’ Thibault smiled smugly, unfazed by Alain’s threat, ‘they rarely venture far from their deserts. Besides, you cannot leave this island. I fear that if the Lord of Avalon sails away from Britain, then the precious peace we’ve enjoyed since the Harrying will crumble and we will have war again. For now, Lord, I’m afraid you’re stuck with my wands.’

‘Well met,’ Alain finally smiled ruefully, 

‘Just be on your guard,’ Thibault smirked, ‘you’ll need more wands in your stores, all fit to be used by your retainers. I can provide the remedy, for enough gold that is.’

When Thibault returned to the bench he cast a promising eye over the pile of wands the two boys had chosen. Salazar informed him that these were the only wands Godric appeared to have an affinity with, although the latter added that each connection had seemed weak. Listening patiently, the wandmaker insisted that Godric repeat the action to confirm it. Godric did as he was instructed, carefully lifting one wand made from ash. He flicked it, in a style reminiscent of the way he had seen Salazar and Alain do so. Nothing happened.

They moved on, testing each wand. No result proved promising. By the time they reached the last wand, Godric couldn't hide his anger. With a frustrated flourish, he waved the wand angrily. Sparks shot out wildly, crackling about the room. A tower of ancient scrolls nearby, piled high with delicate care by Avalon's Moorish scholar, suddenly burst into flame. Godric panted heavily, shocked by the wand's wild response as Alain rushed to douse the smouldering parchment with water before hastily attempting to fix the damage before Yusuf discovered the vandalism of his precious artefacts. Thibault cackled madly, delighted with this turn of events.

'Fascinating,' the wandmaker gushed, before murmuring beneath his breath, ‘oak I believe, but the wrong core. It lacked the control needed for an apprentice and the bond to fuel your endeavours.'

'It's no use,' Godric muttered, his spirits thoroughly dampened.

'Stop feeling sorry for yourself boy,' snapped Thibault, 'we have the right wood and that's half the battle. Oak is a symbol of strength and power, utilised by wizards for thousands of years. Indeed, legend says that Merlin's staff was fashioned from a great oak tree. It is stout enough to contain your magic. All we need is the perfect core and nothing less. You have a great recess of power boy, I can sense it, but you lack the means to control it. You need a wand to do this, but without the appropriate wand-core then this will prove impossible.'

'Then how do we decide on a core?' asked Salazar, his quick mind struggling to find an answer.

'By completing the Ritual,' Thibault said softly. He darted towards his last remaining bundle, which opened to reveal an assortment of bizarre ingredients. Without another word, the wandmaker began to brew a potion, muttering spells with each addition until the small pot hissed viciously. Godric watched on in bemusement. However, one glance told him that Alain and Salazar were no strangers to it.

'The Ritual?' whispered Salazar, unable to hide his envy.

'He is too young!' said Alain, pacing towards his old friend. Thibault rose to his feet, blowing at the wisps of steam rising from the pot. The stench which assaulted all their nostrils made them all grimace with disgust.

'Hot, hot,' he spluttered hastily, placing the bubbling pot on the bench, the frothing potion spitting across the ink-stained wooden surface. He continued, blowing his cold breath onto his stinging fingers, 'bloody stuff! I prepared this before coming here, but it seems trudging through the freezing snow to reach these accursed marshes has frozen it. Fortunately, a few additional spells and it's practically fresh.'

'He is too young.' Alain reiterated, more firmly this time. He sounded anxious, 'the Ritual is a sacred tradition, performed by wizards when they come of age and only when they have learnt to control their magic. I fear the consequences if Godric was to perform it now, it may break him.'

'Do you know of another way?' Thibault asked, sternly.

'What is this Ritual?' Godric asked quietly, but his question went ignored,

'There has to be,' Alain said, looking conflicted, 'I was seventeen summers old when I completed the Ritual. Salazar didn't require the Ritual for his first wand, why should Godric?'

'You were still young, my friend. Many thought Taillefer mad to allow you to perform the Ritual so early, but he understood that it was a risk worth taking. The conquest was near at hand and he knew you would need all your skills if you were to survive the trials to come. Young Salazar also has great potential, but he has a control which Godric lacks. That boy's power is like a mountain spring after a storm. It will continue to leak from him if he does not learn to control it. The boy already has enemies; how does he protect himself from them? What happens when he potentially endangers those he loves by letting his powers rage wandless and wild? You’ve heard tales of such youngsters before and I can confirm that the worse of them are true.’

Alain remained the silent, unable to argue with the wandmaker or deny what the man was telling him.

'I will do it!' Godric called out into the silence. His companions turned to look at him. The night's frustrations still simmered on Godric’s face, but it was now tempered with defiance and an unflinching desire to succeed. Alain's eyes bore into his nephew’s and he found that he could do nothing but commend Godric's courage. Eventually, he simply nodded, giving his consent.

‘Lord?’,' Salazar objected, internally wrestling with his fear for Godric's safety and the jealousy clawing inside him.

'Salazar,' said Alain wearily, 'trust me, there is no other way…'

'This isn't fair!'

'Enough, Salazar!' snapped Alain heatedly, the harshness of his tone startling everyone, ‘you forget yourself. It has to be done, although I dread Morwenna's reaction when she discovers this.' Thibault ignored the discussion between master and apprentice. Instead, he beckoned Godric forwards, ushering him towards the bubbling potion.

'This Ritual,' he told the boy, 'is an ancient ceremony. Traditionally, it is performed when a wizard comes of age and their master dubs them worthy of carrying the wand which will serve them for the rest of their lives.'

Thibault picked up the swiftly cooling potion and presented it to Godric, who took it with slightly shaking hands.

'By drinking this potion, you will slip into the realm of dreams. There you will be shown a vision; a vision which should tell us what the nature of your wand core will be. Take care, boy, and try to remember that we are here for you. This potion is dangerous, as the dreams can summon such fearful incantations that those too young for the challenge have sometimes died or been driven mad because of it. Remember, it is only a dream.' 

Godric nodded, grimacing as he looked down into the bubbling concoction. Taking a deep breath, he raised it to his lips and drank it in one go. He almost gagged at the taste, but Thibault urged him to finish the vile contents and the boy didn't stop until the pot was empty.

'Now, dream,' came the wandmaker's gentle voice as Godric's vision suddenly blurred and his world spun, disappearing in a whirlwind of colour and sound. The pot fell from Godric's hands and the boy stumbled on his feet. Strong arms were there to catch him and lower him to the ground as Godric slipped away into a drug-fuelled stupor.

Godric suddenly felt the strangest of sensations. He felt powerful, a power which spread through him from beak to talon and claws. The sunlight which shone over him was warm on his fur and the feeling of wind fluttering through his feathers was a cooling relief as his great wings beat in steady repetition.

He suddenly realised he was flying. Far above the greenery of a great expanse of land, where twinkling rivers meandered through rolling hills and forests sang in the breeze as mountains towered over it all. Small clusters of settlements were dotted between ploughed fields. From Godric's high vantage point, he could hear the voices of the inhabitants on the wind. Joy and happiness radiated from the land and all was bright and wonderful. Godric looked down. He realised that he was following a long road far below, which cut through the lovely landscape to disappear into the distant horizon.

Then the sky darkened, and the sun was eclipsed by a great shadow. Through disbelieving eyes, Godric saw the land being drowned in a sea of blood and felt pure terror fill him at the sight of the road, once covered in pale stone and now paved with rotting corpses. The wind swiftly turned into a tempest around him. From the howl of the wind, he could make out the mocking laughter of the mysterious killer who haunted his dreams. His body, once powerful and strong, felt suddenly weak and heavy as if the raging storm was caging him. Godric struggled on, falling faster and faster as the bloodied earth rose to meet him. On the distant horizon, he could make out a light, which was dazzling in its purity. It drew him on, giving him the determination to struggle against the dark claws which reached out of the shadows to pull him back. He floundered, fighting and crying with the effort as the laughter thundered louder and louder, the blood rising higher until it was so close he could feel the burn of its touch scolding his talons…

Godric screamed, a high-pitched wail being forced from his lungs as his eyes shot open.

Then it was all gone. He was awake, his eyes wide and his body quivering as his vision cleared and he saw his three companions gathered about him, all watching on with varying degrees of concern.

'Godric, are you okay?' Salazar asked hurriedly, all traces of his previous jealousy replaced by concern for his young friend, 'what happened?'

Godric shook his head, both to clear his mind and rid himself of the nightmarish dream he had just experienced. He suddenly felt terribly nauseous. Thibault seemed to have been waiting for his reaction,

'No,' he ordered sternly, 'however unwilling, you must recount the dream to us!'

It took a long time to calm Godric. Then slowly, he began to tell them his tale; how he had been flying over a bright land, only for all to turn to darkness until it ran with blood. He described the strange sensation of having powerful wings, beak and claws, although he didn't mention the menacing laughter which haunted him. Thibault's eyes seemed to shine with curiosity at his tale.

'Wings, beak and claw?' he repeated inquisitively, 'fascinating!'

'You know of this beast?' asked Alain, his hand clasped tightly around his nephew's shoulder. His face looked drawn and pale.

'I believe I do,' replied Thibault absentmindedly, 'and more importantly, I believe I have the perfect core at my disposal, one I went to great lengths and expense to precure. It was given to me as a gift of fellowship and I have treasured it ever since, waiting for the perfect time to craft it into something remarkable. However, it will take me a few days to craft it into a wand. As for the rest of the boy's vision, I have no clues. I am not a seer, nor did I ever possess a talent for determining the meanings behind such things, especially dreams of such a harrowing nature. Lord Alain, a word in private…'

As Thibault led a wary Alain into the shadows, Salazar informed Godric that he had collapsed when the drug took effect, although Alain had the sense to catch him. At first, nothing had happened. Then he had started to groan loudly, his body began to twitch and then shudder as if caught in a fit. So violent were his unconscious throes that his companions had deemed it necessary to hold him still to stop Godric from dashing his wits all over the wooden floorboards. Aside from this, all they could do was helplessly watch Godric's growing distress.

'What do you think your dream meant?' Salazar finally asked, unable to help himself. Godric could only shake his head.

'I don't know,' he replied honestly, the echo of that chilling laugh resounding in his head, 'I don't know…'

Thibault remained in Avalon for a full week. He worked tirelessly, cooped up in Avalon's vast library. He only left this conclave for the communal meals, where he would delight Alain's household with vivid stories about his travels and the people he had met. Then he would retire to his work, refusing to give any clues about his work. The only man in Avalon who appeared to take umbrage with Thibault's presence was Yusuf. The men had much in common, having both travelled far and wide in their never-ending quest to quench a thirst for knowledge. However, the Iberian Moor resented having to share his domain with a man who had a habit of delightfully setting alight his hoard of precious scrolls and the sound of their persistent bickering could be heard throughout Avalon.

Godric barely saw anything of the strange man. Instead, his lessons and duties consumed him. He had flatly refused a concerned Morwenna's offer to take a few days to rest. The Lady of Avalon had been furious with her husband for allowing Godric to participate in the ritual. It had taken the boy a full day to recover from the nauseous effects of the ritual's potion and even longer to stop dwelling on the content of his drug-induced nightmare. Morwenna had insisted on hearing it, but although she had some knowledge of divination, she also couldn't reveal its nature. This blatantly troubled her, though she hid her concern well.

Yet, Godric's spirits were soon lifted on the day he finally received his first wand. He was sat hunched over a bench, listening to Belin's lecture on the magic of Nordic runes and trying to ignore the aching of his bruised and battered body. Earlier that day, Godric had been forced to suffer a vigorous and gruelling lesson into why it was always important to concentrate when sparring with a superior opponent. This had been forced on him when Hugh had given into his frustrations with Godric's continual lapse in concentration and had beaten him into the ground for the umpteenth time.

Suddenly, the door to Belin's scriptoria burst open, startling Godric and causing him to knock his ink over the parchment he had been scribbling on.

'I've got it,' Thibault yelled in jubilation as he skipped into the small room. Godric was too stunned to reply, but his gaze immediately focused on the carved stick which the wandmaker was brandishing in his hand.

'How can we help you, Thibault?' asked Belin warmly, unfazed by Thibault's spontaneous actions by now. He merely hastened to save what work Godric had produced, delicately taking the unblemished parchments off Godric's ink-stained bench before they were ruined.

'My apologies, Belin, but I come as the bearer of gifts,' he strode over to Godric and held out the wand, 'take it and see.'

Godric looked from the grinning Thibault to the wand in his hands. Nervously, Godric took the wand off Thibault and held it before him. He marvelled at the immediate difference. Unlike the hoard of wands he had tried the night of Thibault's arrival at Avalon, Godric sensed a bond instantly. Warmth weaved through him, filling him with an awareness of the instrument that he held in his fingers. It seemed crafted purely for his use and his magic rejoiced as the bond between wand and castor was finally cemented. The tip of the wand glowed bright, illuminating the wonder shining on Godric's face.

'What do you think?' pressed Thibault, smiling with the pride of a craftsman aware that he had produced a masterpiece.

'It's brilliant,' whispered Godric, barely able to breathe for the exhilaration he felt. 

'This wand has taken me longer to perfect than any other I have made,' explained Thibault eagerly, 'it may even be my most unique. The wand in your hand is a true extension of your soul. Like your bloodline, it combines the indomitable strength of the old oak, but with a core of noble griffon heart-string. The griffon is the beast you dreamed of. Half eagle and half lion, there are few left. However, never has a nobler creature blessed our world. Take care of this wand, Master Godric, for if the nature of your dream tells me anything, it is that you'll face many trials before your time in this world is over. Alain claims you were born to do great things, may this wand aid you in accomplishing them.'


	8. The Ghosts of Avalon

Summer, 1088

Nowhere in Britain was a more glorious place than Avalon when it shone in the splendour of the summer months. The winter snows had long since melted, replaced with temperate spring. But it was with the coming of the summer's golden warmth which brought with it ample opportunity to explore the Isle of Apples and all its secrets; a task Godric's inquisitive nature revelled in.

Godric knew Avalon had an ancient, established history. From the foundations of the castle's keep to the rocks, pools and tall trees which were scattered across its rocky crag, the island seemed to radiate its magical heritage. Godric knew by heart the locations of all twelve statues of Arthur's warriors and would often complete his duties or practice his spells in their shadow. He liked to imagine that he was a part of their prestigious brotherhood and that after his lifetime, he would leave such a heroic legacy that it deserved to be remembered in stone. The marks left by these legendary figures littered Avalon's hill. One memorable excursion beyond the castle had led to Godric discovering many tombs of long dead heroes, including the final resting place of the Arawn, the very first Lord of Avalon. The graves were so old that the symbols engraved on their stone memorials were faded with age and undecipherable in any language Godric was fluent in.

There were also traces of other magical traditions. Godric had learnt that the Cauldron of Rebirth had once been housed here, a magical object which had many names in many tongues and had once nestled in the confines of a small glade's pool which sourced its water from a small waterfall which trickled gently over glittering rocks. Nine stone maidens stood surrounding a moss-cloaked stone which sprouted from the pool like a small island. All nine wore mournful expressions, arms reaching out to grasp hold of a treasure which no longer rested in their outstretched hands. The Cauldron of Rebirth had disappeared long ago, vanishing into the mists of time.

Old magic was woven into the very fabric of Avalon and its outlying lands. The inhabitants of Avalon and its surrounding villages, both Muggle and magical, had accepted the otherworldliness of the island for centuries. The nearby marsh-folk and townspeople supplied Avalon with locally sourced food and supplies, whilst Alain made sure that the taxes raised were fair and that the scattered communities within his fiefdom prospered. Alain's very household was a kaleidoscopic mix, which transcended the barriers between race and culture to find a harmony in co-existence. 

Yet, the sacredness of Avalon as a magical place went well beyond the boundaries of human magic and tradition. Avalon's land and marshes were a haven of spirituality for all magical creatures. Godric had spotted various indigenous sprites inhabiting the Isle of Apples. Naiads, pixies, fairies and many other beings existed amongst the apple trees and deep pools. Although they were often sweet and benign sprites, Godric made sure to keep his distance and not encroach on their territory. He had been warned about evil-doers who lurked deep in the mists of Avalon's marshes, creatures who lured unwitting travellers into the murky depths of their dens to feast on fresh flesh. Despite this, it wasn't just Alain's tall stronghold which stood resplendent on its crag, but the whole island that could truly be considered a magical paradise.

Many mysteries were embedded in Avalon, but none stood out more than Lady Morwenna. She was a myriad of contradictions. At times she was the serene matron, others the doting motherly figure to her husband's squires. However, beneath her graceful exterior was housed a will of steel. She may have been slow to anger, but once roused, many claimed that they would rather face the fiery breath of a raging dragon. Godric had only seen two people face down Morwenna's anger. There was Hugh, who would stare back unflinchingly as her temper washed over him like sea waves over unmoving, weathered rock. The other was Ella, who was Morwenna's equal in all things but social status and would respond to the Lady of Avalon’s displeasure with scathing disdain. Whereas Alain would crumble at the slightest hint of being the target of Morwenna’s temper, these two alone could weather it.

When Godric had been wandering aimlessly through Avalon's apple trees on one of his many aimless sorties from the keep, he had spotted a torch illuminating the gloom amidst the trees. A closer look revealed Morwenna and Aelflaed, emerging from the dark like spectral figures. Morwenna was barefoot, silently stepping through the grass and dressed in nothing but a pale shift. As she passed Godric's hiding place amidst the trees, the trickling water of nearby streams seemed to hum, purring at their proximity to the Lady of Avalon. 

Godric didn't dare move. He feared that the slightest movement may alert the two women that they were being watched. He saw them head towards one of Avalon's many magical pools, hidden from his eyes behind a curtain of hanging ivy and blooming flowers. As Morwenna reached it she began to sing and at the sound of her enchanting voice the ivy curtains crept open, allowing her to enter. She disappeared behind the veil, her handmaiden following closely at her heels. The torchlight was quickly extinguished as the ivy closed, casting Godric back into the shadowy gloom. He had returned to the castle quickly, mystified by what he had seen. From that night on, Godric knew that Avalon held many secrets and he now counted Lady Morwenna highest amongst them.

'Mryddin Emry's,' said Morwenna during one of their lessons, 'or Merlin as he has become commonly known, was arguably the most influential wizard to inhabit these shores since human magic first reached Britain.' 

The Lady of Avalon was perched on her favourite stone bench in the same glade she often insisted on teaching Godric in. The boy listened intently to her every word. They had covered the histories and traditions of many cultures, but although Merlin had been mentioned before, this was the first time Morwenna had discussed the famous wizard in any detail.

'He was a very powerful man, born into a dark time of great change. The legions were leaving these shores and their empire was crumbling around them. The Briton's who remained were left to seek their own fortunes and defend their homes from the wolves prowling at their borders. The Saxons came from the east, braving the seas to bring war upon the people of Britain, their warlocks and shamans using warlike spells and rituals to defeat the wizards whose magic had grown weak under the yoke of Rome. With the Saxons sounding the drums of war in the east, Irish pirates raiding from the west and the fierce, tattooed Picts to the north breaching the Roman Wall, Merlin's people were beset on all sides by enemies. They became a divided rabble of petty warring kingdoms, more inclined to fight amongst themselves than unite to survive this onslaught.

'Merlin's coming gave them hope. He sparked a resurgence in the old traditions of magic long thought lost and extinct. He was the most powerful wizard of his time and no Saxon shaman or Irish warlock could defeat him. When he was still a young man, he overcame the trials and challenges needed to become the Lord of Avalon…'

'Trials?' Godric asked curiously,

'Ancient tests of magical skill,' Morwenna informed him, 'each wizard who wishes to become the Lord of Avalon must partake and defeat the trials before they can be acclaimed Lord of the Isle of Apples.'

'So, my uncle succeeded?'

'With much daring and great skill, although he had faithful Hugh by his side to aid him on his quest. In truth, Alain resembled a young god when he first arrived here…' Morwenna smiled, her mind lost in her memories as she remembered those bygone days. Godric found himself returning Morwenna's smile, as it had been too absent of late.

The recent summer months had brought a change in Morwenna's demeanour. With the arrival of spring came war. Discontented barons, led by the King's uncle, who had threatened rebellion since the dawn of Rufus's reign suddenly burst from their strongholds to bring swords, fire and death upon the lands of the King and his allies. Knights ran amok, causing chaos across the kingdom. Rumours claimed that wizards were amongst the rebel ranks, spreading fear everywhere they went. An urgent message arrived in Avalon from the King, beseeching Alain to make haste and join him. Alain had answered quickly and was gone by the next day, taking his retinue with him. Godric had gaped at the fierceness of the company, who had been fully adorned for war as they assembled in Avalon's bailey. He had joined his voice to Salazar and Hamon's demands to be allowed to go to war, but the Lord of Avalon had denied them the chance. War was no place for boy's their age and his own magic would fulfil the duties of a squire for a time. They had ridden out that morning, and the three boys had watched them disappear into the marsh mists from the tall gatehouse, feeling downhearted.

Morwenna visibly loathed parting from her husband, especially when he marched to war. She had wept bitter tears throughout his last night and her voice could be heard echoing through the keep's halls as she begged him to reconsider. It had no effect, as Alain gently reminded her that he had sworn an oath of loyalty to the King and so was honour bound to ride to his aid if ever called do so. Since the morning of Alain's departure and the onset of summer, Morwenna had been sad and subdued as fear gnawed at her heart. Godric's lessons with her continued, but now beset with worry for her husband's life, she lacked her natural spark and relish for the subject's she taught him. Morwenna was like a mother to him and was slowly healing the painful wounds his mother's death had left. It pleased his heart to see her bright and gentle smile return.

'Look how we digress when dwelling on our pasts,' Morwenna said eventually, shaking herself from her fleeting memories, 'we must return to our talk of Merlin. Once he became Lord of Avalon, he allied his magic with the power of many warlords and sought to heal the fractures which plagued magical Britain. The land flourished under his influence and he left a great legacy. At the height of his powers and using the arts of prophecy, he detected a great evil rising across the sea, an evil whose identity has been lost to us. Much blood was spilt in the war that followed, but after many years, Merlin proved victorious and he threw down his enemy in an epic duel. Following this, he founded the prestigious Order of Merlin to safeguard his victory.’

'What's the Order of Merlin?' asked Godric, unfamiliar with the name.

'A military order established to protect the magical communities of Europe from the threat of evil wizards and their dark practices.' Morwenna glanced at Godric, whose eyes were round with youthful wonder. She chuckled at his reaction, deciding to nip his burning intentions in the bud, 'as I've mentioned, it is a very prestigious group. To this day, they only honour the most talented wizards and witches by welcoming them into their ranks.'

Godric shrugged, understanding what she was trying to tell him. One day, he may be eligible to join their ranks, but he was many years away from that accomplishment and there were more important matters that demanded his focus.

'After the war, Merlin sought to pass on his extensive knowledge to the next generation. He had six great pupils. There was Taliesin the Radiant-Brow; the Caledonian wizard Lailoken; the half-sister of Merlin’s old friend Arthur, Morgana the Fae and his two most beloved children, his son Gleis and his daughter Inogen. Together, they made the magic of the Britons great again. Today, many of the leading and purest magical families claim descent from these mage's, although it is believed that no legitimate bloodline of Merlin's exists these days.'

'Who was the sixth pupil?' inquired Godric.

A witch called Nimue the Last. She was younger than her peers and more susceptible to the dark arts. By the time she reached Avalon, Merlin was old and had retired from the public eye. His dear friend Arthur had met his end in battle and his remaining pupils had left to seek their own fortunes. Morgana had even become his enemy. Now old and frail, he failed to see the thirst for power and ambition Nimue harboured in her heart. She became his last pupil and eventually he took her to his bed as a lover, an old man seeking the comfort of a young woman's body. In Avalon's stronghold, he taught her all his secrets. 

‘Eventually, Nimue persuaded him to reveal to her the secret caves. Great caverns of crystal caves hewn from the rocks by Merlin himself. There, Merlin could conjure his enchantments in peace and hoard the secrets of his long-lasting magic. It was a long-held secret, for Merlin even refused to share it with his other pupils. But Nimue's tongue was sweet and her mind cunning. She persuaded Merlin to reveal the caves to her and there, she lured him to his doom.

‘Her usurpation was cruel and completely bloodless. She coaxed Merlin into casting a spell and then entwined it with her own dark enchantments. The twisted spell froze his heart and encased him in a crystal tomb beneath Avalon. Nimue took control of Avalon and ruled it for two years. When the news reached Merlin's former pupils, they forged an alliance and ousted Nimue from Avalon. Deposed from her seat of power, she was exiled and forced to live in an impoverished hovel beside a lake. Her power weakened, and she feared her peer's retribution. Legend says she gave birth to an illegitimate child of Merlin's, but it was only a rumour and I have heard of only one witch who still lives to claim descent from this bloodline. In the hundreds of years that have passed, Merlin's tomb has never been found.

'This is just one of the many examples of how evil and bloodshed has blighted Avalon,' Morwenna admitted forlornly and Godric could tell that her mind dwelled on what fate awaited the man she loved. She turned her attention back to her pupil, 'I have heard much about your explorations of Avalon, Godric, but I beseech you, do not go looking for Merlin's tomb. Only trouble lies in that pursuit.'

* * *

'I've found it!'

Salazar and Hamon paused, halting in their work polishing Avalon's vast armoury. They stared in confusion at the younger squire whose excited exclamation had interrupted them.

'You’ve found what?' Salazar inquired,

'Another way to prank old Lambert?' asked Hamon, his eyes instantly lighting up. Avalon's steward was a sensible, albeit fastidious man who had little time for Alain’s three unruly and ill-disciplined squires. He considered them to be a nuisance at best and a hindrance at the worst and didn’t hesitate to belittle their work at the slightest aggravation. The boys responded in kind, playing pranks on the steward at every given opportunity. They particularly enjoyed their habit of misplacing the items and tools they knew Lambert would need for completing his own duties and the echo of Lambert's frustrated and furious howls resounding across the halls of the keep provided them with great satisfaction and much mirth. Only the calming intervention of his kindly wife Elvina, a servant at Avalon, would stop Lambert from beating the boy's bloody if he miraculously caught them in the act.

'Sadly not,' beamed Godric, who was bouncing with excitement, 'it's even better.'

'There's nothing better than pranking Lambert,' replied Hamon sagely,

'I can think of a few things,' Salazar muttered ruefully, returning to his work.

'How about finding an entrance to Merlin's caves?' smiled Godric. His companions simply stared at him blankly,

'Merlin's caves?' Salazar asked,

'What are Merlin's caves?' Hamon said ignorantly, having never heard of them due to his Muggle heritage.

'The fabled caves Merlin created beneath Avalon?' continued Salazar incredulously,

'The very same,' Godric grinned proudly.

'Wait,' Hamon interjected, finally remembering some of the tales he’d heard before, 'you've found Merlin's tomb? I thought that was lost hundreds of years ago?'

'It is lost,' Salazar scoffed, recovering from his shock at Godric's statement, 'ignore him, Hamon, he hasn't found anything.'

'I have,' Godric said, his smile disappearing as he scowled at Salazar, 'It's taken a while but I'm sure I've found it!'

'You're talking shit, Godric!'

'I'm talking to one more like,' Godric shot back, making Hamon laugh, 'I'm telling the truth, Salazar, I've found the entrance to the caves.'

'No one has seen the caves since Nimue was driven into exile,' insisted Salazar, 'that's if they exist in the first place. Even if they do exist, how can you stand there and expect us to believe that you, a twelve-year-old wizard, discovered the caves when Merlin's own pupils could not find it?'

'Just let me show you,' insisted Godric, prompting Salazar to shake his head in exasperation, 'I'll prove it.' 

'Godric, stop!' Salazar finally said firmly, 'you’re becoming tedious and we've got work to finish, as do you.' Salazar stared at the younger boy for a moment longer, before turning back to the work at hand and pointedly ignored Godric's heated glare. He had little patience in those months. Alain's oldest squire had been furious when he’d been ordered to stay in Avalon. He was now fourteen years of age and Salazar deemed it old enough to experience life on a military campaign. It wasn't uncommon for squires to experience the stark realities of war at an early age. It was well known that Salazar and Alain had argued over it, youthful passion breaking fruitlessly over Alain's unyielding will. Salazar was forced to remain behind and he had been in a bad-tempered mood ever since.

'Actually,' Hamon suddenly perked up, 'I'd quite like to see it.' 

'You can't seriously believe him?' Salazar exclaimed, glancing at him indignantly,

'Why not,' Hamon shrugged, 'it sounds like it's worth a look. Besides, Godric doesn't lie. He never does. Why would he start now?'

'That's not the point,' Salazar scoffed, 'don't you see how unfeasibly outlandish it is? That a boy can succeed in a venture which some of the greatest wizards and witches in history have failed in. Can't you see how ridiculous this is?'

'Not really,' Hamon replied, grinning at Godric, 'I'm a Muggle, when it comes to wizards then anything can happen, no matter how unfeasibly outlandish it seems. Come on Sal, a quick look won't hurt and Godric looks like he'll go anyway. Better to have us with him if anything goes wrong.' Salazar didn't reply. He just stared begrudgingly at his two companions. Then he sighed in defeat,

'This better be worth it,' he grunted, scowling at a grinning Godric, 'and you're taking the fall for this if we're caught…'

Godric's find turned out to be nestled in a cellar deep beneath the keep. They managed to avoid any unwanted attentions or prying eyes. The stench of damp and mould assaulted their nostrils as the three boy's slowly descended the spiralling staircase into the gloom below. The further they went, the darker the gloom became until Hamon was forced to light the torch he carried. The fluttering lights revealed a chamber far older than Alain's castle. Indeed, Salazar pointed out that the wall probably belonged to the ruined stronghold which had stood on Avalon's summit before Alain's arrival. The walls were painted with faded colours and crumbling mosaics, displaying bawdy Roman stories and lude depictions of phalluses and nudity. Long forgotten collections of ancient, cracked amphorae, chipped decorative carvings and decaying wooden cages were scattered across the stone-flagged floor. A pungent smell filled the air, which on closer inspection, turned out to be faeces oozing from the cracks in the mosaics. Salazar quickly pulled his hand away from where he had been tracing some of the intricate artwork,

'This place is vile,' he growled in disgust, horrified by this latest development.

'We must be pretty deep beneath the castle,' mused Hamon, laughing at Salazar's vanity, 'that must be coming from the cesspit. How does it feel to have Bayard’s shit on you, Sal?' Salazar vented his frustrations by cursing at Hamon until he was breathless.

'Godric,' Salazar snapped irritably, 'you better have something worth showing or Merlin help me, I swear I'll kill you…'

'Here,' Godric answered, smiling as he rolled aside a large, fallen amphorae and revealed a stone flag like all the others except for a large crack running across it. He gestured at it, grinning proudly and remaining ignorant of his companions growing confusion.

'I'm going to kill you,' Salazar breathed, ‘there's nothing here but shit and mould. I knew this was going to be a waste of time.'

'Then what's this,' said Godric smugly, nudging the broken flag with his foot. The stone groaned and for a moment, the crack revealed a dim glow of spectral light. His two companions were stunned and as they leant forward for a closer look they could make out the faint sound of trickling water.

'How the hell did you discover this?' inquired Hamon excitedly, whilst Salazar was rendered speechless. Godric smirked and shrugged.

'I just stumbled on it whilst I was checking the stores for Lambert,'

'Meaning you were looking to prank him and accidently discovered this cellar,' said Hamon with a knowing smile. Salazar managed to tear his eyes away from the broken slab,

'Have you explored further?' he asked curiously.

'Not yet,' Godric admitted, shaking his head, 'I thought I'd wait for you two before I did.' 

The two wizards stared at each other for a long moment. The younger boy's eagerness to explore the discovery was clear on his face. Judging by his excited grin it appeared that Hamon shared Godric's enthusiasm for the venture and had been right when he had pointed out that Godric was headstrong enough to dare it alone. Even Salazar had to admit that he felt a strong urge to seize the tantalising opportunity to be the first people in centuries to explore the fabled caves of Merlin.

'Okay,' Salazar finally allowed, 'Hamon, get that slab open and keep hold of that torch. A small look won't hurt.' Hamon jumped to work, using the strength gained from hours of rigorous training to prise the broken stone away from the glowing opening. As the cellar was slowly basked in an otherworldly green light, Salazar gripped Godric's arm and forced the younger boy to look him in the eye.

'Are you sure this wise?' he asked quietly.

'Why wouldn't it be?' Godric asked,

'Because apart from our eating knives and Hamon's torch,' Salazar hissed, 'we only have two wands and you can barely use one!' 

Godric face darkened into a scowl at the reference to his magical abilities, or lack thereof. Since the day Thibault Ollivander had handed over his wand, Godric had struggled to control and direct his magic to suit his demands. It was a testimony to Alain's patience and abilities as a teacher that Godric had mastered anything at all. His skills were sporadic, at times able to channel his magic to execute spells successfully on the first attempt, whilst on other days he would be unable to perform the most basic charms. 

Before he had departed to aid the King, the Lord of Avalon had sought to teach Godric the arts of transfiguration, charms and more combative enchantments. Godric's power was obvious. Indeed, he had even on the rare occasion rivalled Salazar. However, the older apprentice could accomplish feats of magic with an intricate finesse that somehow eluded Godric's grasp and possessed a speed with a wand that the eye found hard to track. The sporadic nature of his abilities were a constant frustration and embarrassment to Godric and he found it hard to stomach Alain's calm reassurances that it would take time and patience to overcome the mental block which appeared to be an impenetrable barrier.

'I'll be fine,' Godric said firmly. Salazar hesitated but for once decided to let it go, although he couldn't help shaking his head in exasperation at the younger boy's stubbornness.

Hamon's efforts to prise the broken stone away from the cavern's entrance engulfed the boys in an encompassing stench of damp and decay which made them all grimace. Thrusting the torch into the darkness revealed a short drop, about the height of a tall man, to a long staircase roughly carved from the cavern's sharp rocks. One after another, the boys dropped carefully into the darkness. They huddled together at the top of the plunging staircase. The torchlight revealed that the rocky stairway clung to the cave wall as they descended into the gloom and disappeared into the dark chasm.

'Lumos,' whispered Salazar and the end of his wand shone with a pearly white light. Godric followed suit, inwardly relieved when his own wand lit. Then they started to descend into the murky depths below. Subterranean streams and rivers flowed through the rocky chasm bellow and the drumming of falling water was a constant companion. Their progress was slow, as the steps were treacherously slippy with grime and one misstep could send the boy's over the edge of the staircase to become lost in the dark or worse, broken and bloodied heaps on the jagged rocks below. To distract their minds from the darkness clinging to the caverns around them, the two wizards filled Hamon in with the history of the caves, from Merlin's foundations to Nimue's betrayal. Hamon appeared bemused by the tale,

'Isn't it strange how a revered wizard like Merlin found it necessary to hoard his knowledge away from others,' Hamon admitted, 'wouldn't it have benefitted society if such a great wizard had shared his secrets?'

'He did,' replied Salazar, 'and it led to his death.'

'I know,' acknowledged Hamon, 'but why did he share this knowledge with a young girl like Nimue, when he had the trust of kings and more accomplished wizards?'

'Morwenna said that Nimue was his lover,' said Godric, 'and Merlin was old by then. Maybe she gained his trust by lending him a comfort no one else could.'

'So, he was blinded by love?'

'Maybe, or blinded by his lust for her anyway,' Salazar mumbled.

'Sounds like you and a certain maid…umph!' 

A hard punch to the arm cut off the remainder of Hamon's sentence.

'You deserved that,' Salazar hissed. Hamon raised a hand to placate his friend's anger.

‘Peace,' Hamon chuckled, 'but I still think this Merlin was a shady character.'

'He accomplished many great feats,' Godric defended the ancient wizard, 'he spent years fighting against the dark arts.'

'Besides,' murmured Salazar in awe, raising his shining wand high as they followed a long hollow passage into another cavern, 'I can see wisdom in Merlin's thinking; to have a secret place where you can hoard your knowledge and secrets away from prying eyes. A place only you can reach.' He paused, finding Godric and Hamon staring at him strangely. 

Salazar shrugged, 'Merlin made the mistake of placing his trust in the wrong person.'

'Who would you trust with such knowledge?' asked Godric curiously,

'With a secret like this,' he gestured at the colossal cavern they had just entered, 'surely you can only trust yourself.' 

The three boys drifted into silence as they stared in wonder at the world around them. The cavern they now stood in was colossal, far larger than any church or castle they had seen. Rocky pinnacles hung down like great, glittering spear-heads. At the cavern's centre was a huge void, filled with the patter of water falling from the cavern's roof like gentle rainfall. A subterranean river roared out of a hidden chasm to crash into a deep pool at the caverns foot. Steps hewed from the rocks by magic descended along the cavern wall towards its foot, where dark hollows indicated that secret, unexplored passage ways led further into the labyrinth of Merlin's secret realm. 

Yet, what was most astonishing was the crystal's that were encrusted all over the jagged walls. They glittered and shone with spectral light, releasing an ethereal glow over the sparkling cascade of falling water. Merlin's crystal caves were truly a mystical kingdom and the boys wondered wordlessly if they had somehow stumbled upon the gateway to the otherworld.

They descended through the veils of mist rising from the pool. As they went, they checked each burrow and passage, using wands to illuminate their way. Most were empty or caved in, worn down and weakened over the passage of time. Nothing noteworthy appeared to remain in the dank caverns, for whatever treasures Merlin had stored away seemed to have been lost long ago.

'Wait,' Godric's sudden cry echoed off the walls, 'can anyone hear that?'

'Hear what?' asked Hamon, nonplussed.

'That noise,' said Godric, staring about him in confusion, 'it's almost like as if someone is whispering?'

'Godric,' continued Hamon slowly, 'I think you're imagining…'

'No, wait!' Salazar hissed, 'I think…I can hear it too.'

The three boys stared at each other. Whilst Hamon could hear nothing but the patter of falling water and the crackle of his flaming torch, his companions could hear a hushed whisper resonating off the cavern's rocks.

'It's coming from that,' Godric finally decided, pointing towards one eerie tunnel.

'Should we see what it is?' mumbled Hamon hesitantly, trying to mask his rising nerves.

'It could be dangerous,' Salazar warned them,

'Then if it is, we have a duty to protect Avalon,' said Godric, more bravely than he felt. Forcing his rising nerves aside. Godric strode into the dark. Hamon followed shortly behind and Salazar came after, muttering quietly about how Godric would get them all killed.

They delved deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels. As they crept on, the air got thicker and the strange whispering seemed to grow louder. The light of their wands and torches barely penetrated the clinging darkness. Thankfully, the embedded crystals glittered in the walls around them. The rocks beneath their feet grew more uneven and slippery. Then, as they turned a corner in the subterranean maze, they came face to face with a dimly lit light ahead. With only a look, they silently agreed to investigate further, slowly approaching the spectral glow as the whispering grew louder with every step. Finally, they reached the end of the tunnel's gloom, only to be stricken speechless by the sight before them.

The boy's entered a vault far smaller than the colossal cavern they’d discovered and hewed from the rocks by great feats of magic. They gaped more at the source of the spectral glow. This vault was filled with heaps of hoarded treasures. Jewels, gems and gold were piled high. A king's ransom of expensively crafted objects lay forgotten amidst the vast wealth, from gold-rimmed books to shining, bejewelled weapons. An unnatural light shone from the crystal peaked roof. But what drew their gaze more was the huge crystal pillar, half embedded in the rocks and surrounded by the great interweaving roots of Avalon's apple trees.

Godric's companions laughed aloud in awe and dived into the amassed treasures. When Hamon resurfaced, a gold leafed crown was hanging from his head and an intricately gilded spear in his hands. Salazar picked up countless old tomes, brimming with untold secrets. He laid back against the gold, beaming with satisfaction as he began to digest as many of the ancient words as he could understand.

Godric ignored them. His eyes were still drawn to the great monolith which dominated the chamber. He felt a sudden pull on his heart, enticing him to step towards it, the strange whispers still echoing in his ears. Halfway there, his foot struck the pommel of a sword of ancient design. It was a sword forged for a lord of war, the blade marked with symbols and patterns. Keeping hold of the sword, Godric continued until he had reached the pillar. The whispers intensified as Godric scrutinised it closely, his brow furrowed. 

There was something inside the pillar. A shadowy blemish trapped deep within the pearly white stone. His frown deepened as he leant closer to the shining crystal. The whispers became a deafening chorus and Godric realised the voice sounded ancient. He couldn't understand the subdued muttering, as it was spoken in a long-forgotten tongue. It spoke on and on, as Godric's keen eyes realised that the strange blemish was the figure of a hunched man. A man deceived and trapped by his own, last enchantment.

'The tomb of Merlin,' Godric whispered in horrified awe. His hand rose, and he pressed it softly against the crystal which housed a wizard in death who was now revered as a deity. Godric couldn't believe what his eyes were seeing.

Then the blurred head shifted and stared directly at him.

Godric cried out in horror and sprang away from the tomb as the figure's jaw gaped open and unleashed a deafening scream which filled the vault. A chilling wind blew through the chamber, extinguishing Hamon's torch. The vault's golden glow was abruptly eclipsed, the only light now radiating from their wands. Hamon and Salazar leapt to their feet in alarm, staring at the Merlin's tomb from where the strangled scream resonated. Salazar strode over to Godric and gripped his arm tightly,

'What did you do?' Salazar snarled furiously.

'The…the tomb!' stuttered Godric incoherently, 'It's…it's the tomb of Merlin!' 

Pointing at the crystal pillar, where the shadowy figure could be seen screaming and writhing unnaturally. The three boys baulked, then Salazar let out a sudden cry.

'Look at your feet!'

Looking down, they noticed that the treasures which had once piled high had now disintegrated into dust and scraps of rusted metal. Only now, skeletal fingers crawled out of the earth. Yellowed arms followed, decaying skin hanging loose and torn from bones whilst their skulls, eyeless and veiled with long thinning hair, moaned as they reached the open air. Godric's grip tightened around his sword hilt as the closest skeletal to him clawed at his toes. Stricken with fear, he raised the sword above his head and prepared to strike. However, it suddenly felt light and Godric saw that the once bright blade had vanished, eaten away by rust and age. He dropped the hilt, now defenceless.

'Shit!'

Godric heard the cry and a glance to his side told him that Hamon, having cast aside his now rusted spear, was similarly defenceless. The Muggle squire fumbled for the eating knife at his belt just as one skeletal form succeeding in wrenching itself free and leapt at him with a hideous screech. Godric saw it coming and reacted, raising his wand with a spell on his lips. But his wand faulted and sparked pitifully, failing to produce any spell that could save them.

Bang! 

A sound like thunder assaulted their ears, cloaking Hamon's scream of terror. With a flash, the undead ghoul was blasted away from them, bones and rotting flesh flying in all directions. Godric and Hamon gaped at Salazar, who had his wand outstretched and seemed stunned by what he had done. Pale-faced, the oldest amongst them turned to his companions and cried out urgently,

'Run!'

The three boys bolted, retracing their steps to the colossal cavern. Skeletal arms flailed at them as they passed and those groaning ghouls which had managed to puncture through the earth now sprang forward to hamper them. Salazar's wand twirled in his fingers as he cast another spell, sending a bright ball of magic into an oncoming corpse. Hamon, yelling out in fright, gripped his unlit torch in both hands like an axe and swung it in a wide arc, dislodging a fleshless skull from the shoulders of an animated torso which still threatened to throttle him regardless of being rendered headless.

A pair of ghastly figures sprang forwards to heed Godric's progress. He raised his wand again and tried to settle his nerves as he cast the spell. There was a crack but still his wand failed to respond, merely projecting a sparkling red light which illuminated the gaping jaws and thrashing arms of the skeletal spirits attempting to reach him. He tried to step away from them, but his way was impeded by the tightening ring of ghoulish figures swiftly closing in. They were trapped; outnumbered and Godric felt a heart-wrenching terror beginning to overwhelm him.

Something leapt out of the dark and tackled him to the ground. Godric closed his eyes, his small body struggling to release the fiend's clammy claws. The thing's breath erupted over his face, followed by stinking spittle and loose, dislodged earth. He could barely hear Salazar and Hamon shouting his name as his ears rang with the chorus of horrible screams. More hands grabbed at him, monstrous fingers trying to tear his body into bloody ruin and all Godric could do was scream out the first word that came to mind.

'INCENDIO!'

Finally, with all hope swiftly diminishing, his wand reacted to his call.

Now, as if the sudden, dire need for it had succeeded in breaching the invisible barrier within his mind and now his magic flooded out. There was a sudden roar and then a stream of flame spewed forth. A ghoul tearing at his arm was immediately engulfed, screeching madly as it rolled away and released him. Suddenly unencumbered, Godric swished his wand around and directed it at the two figures who had forced him to the ground. The flames roared again, and the two monstrous beings were flung away from him, their bones and flesh crackling as the fire ate at their corpses. All Godric could do was watch with wide eyes, heedless of the fact that his actions had just saved all their lives. Several ghoulish creatures lay twitching in burning heaps nearby and these fiery, whimpering beacons seemed to alarm the remaining corpses. They retreated, mewling to themselves as they scurried for the earth they had sprung from and had soon they had disappeared into their subterranean lairs. As they did, the spectral screams subsided, and the darkening cavern fell quiet, only broken by the crackling of smouldering fire and the heavy breathing of the three boys who had unwittingly disturbed its peace.

Godric slowly climbed to his feet and looked at his friends. Both were in a filthy and unkempt condition. They were not unscathed, as Salazar was bleeding from a shallow gash above his eye and Hamon had taken a blow to the face during the brief confrontation, which was now swelling and bruising quickly. Godric himself could feel small trickles of blood coming from the multiple scratches.

'Thank Merlin for small mercies,' breathed Salazar in relief, before he eyed Godric with new found respect, 'Lord Alain always said you had it in you.' Godric would have flushed at the praise had he been not so deathly pale.

'What the hell were those things?' stuttered Hamon, his eyes still as wide as a hunted hare.

'Malevolent spirits to protect the dead,' answered Salazar, blinking madly as he tried to wipe the blood from his eyes, 'Nimue's work. She must have created these wards so that Merlin would not be disturbed, or her murderous deeds discovered!'

'She must have had one hell of an imagination,’ Hamon growled between ragged breaths.

'Or a great penchant for cruelty,' said Salazar curiously, 'only the darkest arts can bring back the dead!'

Godric remained silent. He found that he couldn't take his eyes off the flaming creature which now lay in a bundle of bones and scorched flesh, still twitching in its death throes. He was astonished at what he had achieved. His wand felt warm in his hand, revelling in their renewed bond.

'We should get out of here,' whispered Hamon urgently, eying the crystal pillar in which Merlin's corpse was entombed. Salazar heartily agreed.

Godric nodded distractingly, his eyes on the dazzling fire consuming the decaying flesh. The flames were dying as if they were being doused by some invisible force until they finally fizzled out with a hiss. The air about them was growing colder. Godric shivered at the sudden change in temperature and the faces of his friends stood out like pale ghosts in the encompassing darkness. The young squire could tell that they had also realised all was not well. Their breath misted out before them and the atmosphere in the cavern grew chillier with every heartbeat.

‘Idiot boy!' The voice assaulted him so suddenly that Godric stumbled backwards, flinching away from the memory of Father Thomas’s hand striking him with unnecessary force. Godric blinked, attempting to clear his mind. It was to no avail, for another memory returned as quickly as the last had left. His father stood over him with fury in his eyes as blood dripped from his bruised fist. The recollection was nauseating.

'What happening?' Hamon whimpered. Godric barely heard him; he was sat alone in his sleeping quarters at Black-Hollow. Godric felt his heart constrict at the sudden feeling of loss and hopelessness which had all but devoured him after he had learned of his brother's death. The stark realisation that his protector and role-model was gone assaulted his heart again.

'I don't know,' Salazar said in a tiny, far-away voice, so out of character for the usually confident boy Godric had grown to know. A voice roared internally within the youngest squire, demanding that he see to his friends.

'Lumos,' he stuttered, and his wand lit, illuminating the surrounding area. Hamon and Salazar had gathered close to him, but their eyes looked past Godric and their minds were elsewhere. Salazar shivered as his eyes squeezed shut.

‘Fire,’ he whimpered pitifully from pale, trembling lips, ‘fire.’

'No,' Godric choked, forcing the memory of threatening whispers in Black-Hollow’s shadows away. He stumbled, accidently shoving into Salazar and interrupting the boy's own haunting reverie.

'Godric?' he questioned confusingly, his eyes shooting open.

'Salazar,’ Godric whispered, ‘we need to get out of here. Something's wrong!'

'I know, but what is it?'

'I'm not sure, but I think something…all I can feel is…' his stumbling reply came to an abrupt Something was stirring in the gloom. He raised his wand higher and as the light spread, Godric's heart almost stopped. A scream died on his lips, for from the darkness emerged a spectre shrouded in black. It hovered in the air, the tattered fabric of its rotten cloak fluttered calmly over clammy, decayed flesh and its eyeless mask appeared to be fixed upon them. The foul creature radiated despair and decay; the embodiment of evil.

'We…we need to leave!' Godric declared meekly. He risked a glance at his companions, to find Salazar ashen faced and staring at the monstrous vision with wide, terrified eyes.

'Why?' Hamon stammered fearfully. He followed their gaze, but his Muggle eyes could not see the fiendish beast before them.

'Just trust us,' said Salazar. The creature watched on ominously, unmoving as it hovered above them. Despair crashed over the boys with the force of a storm-born wave against a rocky shore. Godric cringed at the image of his mother's pale corpse and her fraught screams as the childbirth killed her resounded in his ears.

'NO,' He couldn't think of it; he wouldn't face those emotions again. He roared against it and a fury he hadn't known he contained sparked within his breast. He whipped his wand through the air and pointed it at the creature, yelling out a spell as he did so. A blazing ball crackled through the dark and collided with the spectre. However, instead of forcing the spectre back, the spell fizzled out on impact. A choking wheeze croaked from the spectre’s faceless mask, the closest sound to amusement it could muster.

Godric's flaring defiance wrenched his friends from their immobile state. Salazar was the first to act, flinging the hapless Hamon back towards the cavern's unbarred exit. Forcibly shoving Godric behind him, Salazar quickly sent his own spell soaring after Godric's. It had the same inadequate effect. Only this time the spectre rushed into action and flew towards them, emitting a hideous, blood-curdling screech.

Salazar released a strangled yell and fled with Godric. The darkness of the tunnel engulfed them, yet still they could sense the creature following behind at a frightening pace. The apprentices tried to hinder the foul things progress, shooting spells over their shoulders at the advancing creature. To no avail, as the flashes briefly illuminated the spectre's foul and fiendish visage. Their sense of despair grew stronger and the ongoing assault of their bleakest memories became harder to resist.

Then Salazar yelled out as he tripped on a loose rock and tumbled to the ground with a panicked yelp, his two companions turning at the sound of his stricken cries. Salazar scrambled forwards and tried to regain his feet, but a sharp pain in his ankle brought him crashing down with a strangled wail.

'Sal!' Hamon cried and Salazar turned to find the spectre bearing down on him through the dark, its discoloured arms reaching out from beneath its tattered shroud. It reared up before him, ready to descend on its prey and relishing their terrified screams.

'BOMBARDA!' Godric's strangled cry roared through the empty caverns. The creature turned to face him, only to find a wand pointed at the rocky ceiling between it and its prey. With a mighty bang, a spell issued forth and tore into the crystallised rock with destructive force. For a moment, nothing changed and the spectre, sensing trouble, hurtled through the air with a desperate haste.

Then the very earth around them shuddered with a thunderous noise. Rocks burst down from the ceiling above, joined by sparkling crystals and flurries of streaming water, blocking the creatures path. Salazar lay unmoving and would have been crushed if Godric and Hamon hadn't dared the falling rocks to pull him away. Helping the stricken Salazar to his feet, they didn't look back as the cave gave way in a heap rocks and choking dust until it blocked the entrance to Merlin's tomb. They heard one last, terrible screech of outrage echo off the walls around them before they blundered into the grand cavern and the furious screams slowly drifted into silence.

The boys refused to stop. They dared not, for they didn't know what other foul creatures or dark magic they had foolishly disturbed. They kept running, helping Salazar stumble on and not caring where they went. The only thought on their minds was getting as far away from the evil they had just confronted.

It took them all by surprise when they felt a sudden wave of clean air wafting through the passageway they had bolted down. Finally coming to a halt, they staggered slowly on until they were met by the blinding light of a dying sun. The stink of the marshes greeted them, but for once the dank scent smelt heavenly to them after the pungent decay which clogged the caves. They roughly pushed through the undergrowth which veiled the entrance to the hidden passageway until, after battling through the clawing nettles, they finally emerged into the light.

They savoured the marshy air as their exhausted bodies slumped to the sodden earth, their clothes stained with grime, blood and filth; torn by shredding thorns, rocks and the attack from the cursed creature. Once they had recovered their wits, all eyes turned to the shadowed entrance to the caves, now hidden behind the veil of undergrowth. A dim spectral light, radiating from the crystals which encrusted the tunnel's walls, shone faintly in the dying light.

'We need to get away from this place,' Salazar breathed,

'I agree,' mumbled Hamon, as he tenderly examined his swelling face in a dark pool.

'Where do we go?' interrupted Godric, staring out at the mists which clogged the surrounding marshes and hid many other foul beings from sight.

'We'll have to skirt the foot of the island,' mused Salazar grimly, 'and climb the trail to the gatehouse.'

'We'll have to cause enough bloody racket to alert someone of our presence,' finished Hamon sourly. He could picture Morwenna's wrath once she discovered what had transpired. Godric whistled,

'Lady Morwenna will not be happy.'

'Neither will Lord Alain when he returns,' added Hamon. Godric felt the first waves of guilt wash over him. Why had he so casually disregarded Morwenna's warnings?

'I'd rather take my chances with Lady Morwenna's wrath than whatever curses Nimue left in there,' Salazar said honestly, gesturing at the caves they had just fled from.

'More fool you,' mumbled Hamon apprehensively, 'I'd rather take on those monsters.'

With a weary sigh, the three boys rose to their feet and began to trek towards Avalon's gate. However, before leaving, Godric paused and turned one last time to look at the tunnel. He stared at it for a long moment, then took out his eating knife and approached the old stooping willow, where he quickly carved Avalon's symbol of an apple into the ancient bark. Once he was satisfied, Godric lowered his wand and again cast his eyes towards the caves. A familiar chill overcame him, and he shivered in the summer air, despite being content with his initiative. There may be a time when a knowledge of this secret place was needed.

Turning away, Godric stumbled over the rough undergrowth and ran to catch up with his companions. In their fatigued state, it took the boy's longer than expected to find the small trail which led up through the apple trees and even longer to climb it. The sky had darkened by the time they reached the brow of the hill and stumbled towards the gates, all three racked with nerves.

They needn't have worried about alerting the household of their presence, for the gate was already open and in the gap waited Morwenna. Her face was cast in shadows, but the flicker of the burning torch in her hands illuminated a glacial scowl which made all three boys gulp in dread. As she ushered them into the castle's bailey, Morwenna fixed them all with a stony glare, although her gaze lingered pointedly on Godric, forcing the younger boy to look away guiltily.

'Back from your adventure?' she broke the awkward silence. Her voice was as icy as she looked.

'I'm sorry, Lady…' began Salazar,

'Spare me your apologies,' Morwenna suddenly snapped, her eyes flashing, 'you have a courtier’s tongue Salazar, but if I have need of it then I shall call. I have warned each of you before about the many secrets hidden in Avalon. You decided to ignore my warnings and have discovered why I thought they were necessary.' 

The boys nodded. Morwenna sighed at their disheartened expressions.

'I am furious that you deliberately disobeyed me,' she chastised them wearily, 'Godric, I presume it was you who conjured up this foolish venture? You are all young and I cannot blame you for your curiosity. Avalon holds many wonders. I should know as I have lived in Avalon for many lives of men…' 

Godric's head shot up. Many lives of men? The mystery surrounding the Lady of Avalon deepened instantly. However, the look on Morwenna’s face told him that she would not tolerate his curiosity.

'I thought that as squires to the Lord of Avalon, you would realise that the magical world contains innumerable dangers. Even here in Avalon, evil lingers in the shadows. Many people have lived here and not all of them peacefully. Having encountered the foulness which thrives in the deeps beneath us, I hope you can finally understand how fortunate you are to have survived'. 

They all nodded, shivering as they remembered the dark spectre. Morwenna's eyes glanced over their wearied and dishevelled appearance and her cold gaze softened reluctantly.

'Now, go and clean yourselves before getting some rest,' she sighed, 'besides, I'm sure Lambert will vigorously ensure that this evening's chores will be done before first light breaks upon us and I assure you that you will not escape punishment.’

The boys groaned before they began to shuffle towards the keep, imagining just how much Avalon's steward was bound to delight in his revenge. As Godric shuffled dishearteningly past Morwenna, he paused and glanced up in to her stern face.

'How did you know?' he asked her, unable to resist. She held his gaze for a long moment, peering at him intensely,

'The water's told me,' Morwenna replied softly and said no more about it.


	9. Storm Clouds

Autumn 1088

The stench of shit was overpowering. After days spent in this repugnant world, Godric's senses had almost gotten used to the smell of shit and piss that filled the air around him. The boy sighed and stretched his aching arms. Cleaning Avalon's cesspit, without the aid of magic, was a disgusting chore and Godric would have leaped at the chance to escape it. Yet, this was the penalty for disobeying Lady Morwenna's strict orders to curtail his explorations.

Since Morwenna had discovered their perilous little adventure into the bowels of Avalon's subterranean labyrinth of glittering caves, the three boys had been put through a vigorous regime of duties under the delighted eyes of Avalon's steward. The additional work, slotted between their usual duties, had rendered all three boys so exhausted that it was a substantial effort just to stumble into their beds at night. As the instigator of their misdeeds, the worst tasks had been reserved for Godric. In the long hours he had spent in this stinking hellhole, Godric had sussed out that Morwenna had known instantly whose idea it had been to venture into the darkness beneath Avalon and had punished him accordingly.

Godric had suffered in sombre silence, understanding that having risked the lives of his friends, he deserved the punishment. He couldn't even summon any anger about Lambert's gleeful enjoyment of the situation. After all, the three boys had put the steward through all kinds of hell in the past. Over the last few days, he had been washing and grooming himself as fastidiously as Salazar in a hopeless attempt to remove the stench which seemed to cling permanently to him. Both Hamon and Salazar didn't fare much better, although Godric didn't know for sure what revenge Lambert had allotted for them, as they had barely seen each other since their ill-fated venture.

'Master Godric,' came a call from above him. Godric stepped back from the wooden ladder and looked up to find the pretty handmaiden Rhyannon staring down at him, making a half-hearted attempt to avoid grimacing at the foul world he laboured in. All three squires knew her well, for Rhyannon was a sweet and popular girl. Godric laughed at her reaction,

'Rhyannon,' he hailed her, cleaning his hands on a clean strip of cloth, 'welcome to my humble abode.'

'It's a pleasure,' she told him, her expression saying the complete opposite. Godric chuckled,

'What can I help you with?'

'Lady Morwenna sent me,' she told him hurriedly, eager to be away from the stench, 'she needs your assistance.'

'Why?' Godric asked curiously, frowning at her uncharacteristic insistence.

'Lord Alain has returned from his service with the King,' she gushed, 'they say he is gravely wounded.' 

For a moment Godric remained perfectly still, then he launched into action, leaping up the ladder to the trapdoor overhead. He leapt out of the cesspit in such a hurry that he almost sent Rhyannon tumbling.

'Where?' he demanded urgently.

'The great hall,' she said, holding a hand up to cover her nose from the stench radiating from him, 'his retainers have gathered with him. Masters Salazar and Hamon are already there.' She flushed a little at the mention of Salazar but Godric barely noticed. It was no secret that the young maid was fond of Salazar Slytherin. Godric rushed down the corridor, only pausing to ask Rhyannon to meet him in the great hall with a bowl of scented water in which to wash. Then he was off again, hurtling through Avalon's keep, ignoring the servants he almost sent sprawling as they dived away to avoid the young squire.

When he entered the hall, he found it in chaos. Relief washed over him at the sight of seeing the familiar faces of Alain's retinue stalking the hall amidst the gathered household. Not one was missing, although Gervais was sat on a bench, pale-faced and muttering curses as his brother tended to a nasty burn on his arm. Godric quickly located his uncle amidst the chaos in the hall.

Alain sat upon his high seat. As Godric approached, he marvelled at the sight before him. He had never seen his uncle like this. In his eyes, Alain was indestructible. However, this image was now shattered and for the first time Godric realised that his uncle was merely a mortal man like any other.

Alain's skin was grey, and he looked fatigued, sweat streaming from him. Morwenna was kneeling by his side, anxiously scanning the long leg which lay stretched out, upon a bench which was slick with blood. Isolde was by her side, hurriedly explaining her earlier efforts to heal it. Clustered around them stood Lambert, who was speaking in hushed whispers to Hugh. Godric's fellow squires had already arrived, both pale faced. Hamon clutched a large bowl of fresh water at the ready, although the refreshing liquid had long since turned scarlet. More surprisingly was Ella's unexplained presence, especially in such proximity to Morwenna. However, in her husband’s need, it appeared the Lady of Avalon had forgotten her testy feud with the whore, for Ella was now whispering advice whilst holding a bundle of dry linen strips. Gone was the usual playful wink she often sent Godric's way to embarrass him and she looked completely serious.

Alain's eyes had been closed as he was tended to by those closest to him. However, they opened as he heard Godric’s approach and a tired smile flickered at his lips as he recognised his nephew.

'Godric,' he acknowledged, 'Merlin boy, you grow taller every time I lay eyes on you.' He paused and wrinkled his nose at the horrible stench Godric emitted. Bayard, who was lounging broodingly nearby, suddenly turned away from Godric with a muttered curse,

'God's bollocks, who smells of shit!' The rest of the hall didn't disagree, although Godric noticed Lambert trying to hide a satisfied smile behind his hand as he disappeared towards Avalon's cellar on an errand for Hugh. Even Salazar edged away from his friend, unable to stomach the overwhelming stench.

'He still smells better than you, Bayard' Ella countered waspishly. Fortunately, Rhyannon arrived close on Godric's heel with a bucket of scented water, a clean cloth and a change of clothes. She quickly passed them over to Godric, who rushed to the corner of the room to wash. Rhyannon hastened away with downcast eyes, although she managed to sneak a glance at Salazar, who for once barely returned her smile. Godric returned quickly, having cleansed himself of the worst of it. He returned Alain's smile tentatively.

'You're looking well, Lord.' Alain let out a bark of laughter, which soon turned into a hiss as he accidently shifted his leg. Now the overpowering stench of shit had subsided, Godric could finally smell the bitter scent of infected flesh. Looking over Morwenna's bent head, he saw the wound which caused it and visibly blanched. A deep gash had been carved into his flesh and was slowly leaking a poisonous mix of blood and puss. The skin around it was scabbed and blistered, as if it had been charred. Godric looked on in stunned disbelief whilst Morwenna probed the wound and shook her head furiously,

'You fool,' she chastised her husband sharply. The three boys exchanged looks. They knew that tone; the Lady of Avalon was deeply displeased. They had witnessed it before and were thankful that for once it wasn't directed at them.

'I had no choice,' Alain answered her wearily,

'There's always a choice,' she spat, her eyes never leaving her husband's infected limb. Alain shook his head, unwilling to argue with her in his exhausted state. His refusal to respond caused his wife fume more. Fortunately, she decided to bite her tongue, instead levelling a glowering look at Hugh, 'how did this happen?'

Godric saw Hugh visibly bristle at the unsaid accusation in Morwenna's gaze. Surprisingly, it was Bayard who answered her.

'Bellême,' the big man grunted. Those closest to him fell silent, recognising the name of an infamous wizard. Godric and Salazar exchanged a startled look, the former feeling the recurring flutter of apprehension pulse through his heart at the mention of Bellême. Morwenna was now giving her husband a very hard look, although Godric saw that his fear was mirrored in her eyes as she demanded an explanation. Alain sighed,

'We always knew this could happen,' he said, 'Bellême was with the rebels. Merlin, he was leading most of them. He's got Curthose in his pocket and with that band of savage men at his back, he is a formidable enemy. As soon as this rebellion began there was every possibility that we would cross paths.'

'Did you go looking for him?' Morwenna suddenly demanded sharply. Alain looked astonished,

'Of course not,' he growled, 'what in Merlin's name do you take me for?'

'I know you Alain,' his wife countered, 'I know you better than anyone here. I know what you are like, especially when you feel like you have something…or someone to protect.' Her eyes flickered towards Godric and Salazar. Even in his fatigued state, Alain caught the glance.

'You're right,' he admitted firmly, 'I would confront him if it meant protecting the boys. But they were safe in Avalon, not on the battlefields outside Rorchester. It was Bellême who sought out me.'

'Why?' Morwenna persisted, 'why you?'

'Other than being an unpleasant man, I fear I may have misjudged his thirst for revenge. My squires embarrassed him before the great magnates of the realm. Even a year later, that humiliation rankles deeply. He was bound to seek me out if our paths crossed in battle. Besides,' he paused to consider the meaning in his wife's eyes, 'we already know he can hold a feud.'

Morwenna held his gaze for a long time,

'There was nothing that you could do about that,' she reminded him firmly, soaking a rag in sparkling water and pressing it against Alain's leg. The wound hissed violently, and steam issued from the rag, causing Alain to stiffen and growl in pain. When she finally took the rag away, Alain breathed a sigh of relief.

'He still blames me,' he finally grunted out, his eyes closed and avoiding the stern yet sympathetic glance his wife directed at him. Godric sensed that there was more being said, as if the embarrassment Bellême suffered during the King's coronation was not the only incident being alluded to here. It was obviously a private topic, for even Morwenna chose not to press her husband further. Instead, she returned to her husband's wound as Lambert strode back into the hall, carrying a costrel of uisce beatha, the strongest alcohol stored in Avalon.

Lambert passed the costrel to Alain, who regardless of its burning taste, immediately began gulping down the potent brew like it was the water of life. Morwenna raised an eyebrow at Alain's behaviour, but didn't seek to dissuade or chastise him, recognising that her husband's dulled senses would be a blessing against the pain he would endure as the wound was treated. Emptying the costrel, Alain threw it aside and ordered Hugh to tell the rest of the tale. The scarred warrior had been brooding silently, but he did as Alain bid.

The kingdom had been thrown into chaos as the rebellious barons violently scourged the countryside and rumours of Curthose's invasion sparked fear in every corner of the realm. However, Rufus had reacted quickly and efficiently. With Alain's wise counsel, the King had promised vast rewards for those nobles who remained loyal to him. Then he had set out for the castle of Pevensey at the head of his army, where his traitorous uncle, one of the leading instigators of the rebellion, resided. Alain's retinue had been sent to besiege the castle of Tonbridge. Gilbert Fitz Richard, the baron in charge of the castle's defence, was prepared for a long and bitter siege, but had obviously not expected to be facing Alain of Avalon, the King's Grand Sorcerer.

Despite fierce resistance from the defenders, Alain and his retainers had scaled the walls and forced the garrison to surrender. Alain faced Fitz Richard on the castle walls and wounded him so grievously that it was rumoured the bastard had been forced to relinquish his titles and retreat to a monastery.

Godric's eyes were wide and he was eager for his uncle to expand on the duel. He was disappointed, for Hugh merely stated that they had immediately left to protect the King, who was having difficulties fighting the rebels and wizards led by the imperious Bellême, leaving Tonbridge as a smoking ruin. The rebellious Bellême had led his ruthless band of hardened soldiers on a bloody campaign, ravaging the land with spells and swords. Better to be killed in battle than be taken prisoner by Bellême, for he had a penchant for cruelty and torture. Hastening to the King's side, Alain arrived as the monarch advanced on the stronghold at Rorchester, the centre of rebellious activity. Brutal skirmishing had erupted around the castle as the rebels battled with the King's encroaching forces and much blood had been shed on both sides. It was during one of these skirmishes that Bellême's pack of merciless wolves had fought Alain’s retinue.

'We were evenly matched,' Alain admitted drunkenly, although the clench of his jaw indicated how unhappy he was to admit it, 'I instantly started duelling Bellême and it was clear he wanted me dead. Hugh tried to stay beside me, but the press of men was too great. I held my own, but Bellême can wield a sword and wand simultaneously, as well as having a great knowledge of the dark arts. I saw Bellême's spell slip past my guard, then all I remember is the pain. I was thrown to the ground, although the bastard was also bleeding.' He belched loudly and swayed where he sat, his features turning paler as he remembered the duel. Salazar leapt forward to help hold Alain upright until he regained his composure. Alain looked sickened by what had happened,

'I've fought all my life,' he suddenly growled, 'I've fought many duels and defeated better wizards than Bellême, yet if it hadn't been for Hugh I would have died in some shit-filled ditch…'

‘That sounds like a familiar tale,' Morwenna said quietly, glancing at Hugh with forgiveness and regret. Hugh met her glance and shook his head. He obviously disagreed with Alain's praise.

'Hugh managed to block Bellême's curse on his shield,' Isolde quietly explained, 'then leapt at Bellême. He almost reached him…'

'Could you have beaten him?' interrupted Salazar, gesturing at Alain's wounded body and sounding unconvinced.

'I would have disembowelled him,' Hugh promised darkly. He stared unblinkingly at Salazar, as if daring the younger boy to dispute it. Godric saw Salazar gulp and accept the truth with a fervent nod. Anyone who argued with Hugh in his present mood was risking both life and limb.

'He certainly made short work of the bastard who got in-between them,' Bayard chuckled darkly.

'It must have been a very dark spell,' murmured Morwenna, her voice quivering as she continued to soak Alain's wound in water drawn from Avalon's magical pools, 'I dare not consider what spell he tried to use to kill you'.

'It made quick work of my shield,' Hugh admitted with a grunt, 'melted it. Wood, leather, and iron were gone in a few heartbeats. It bypassed the protective wards as if they were cast by a mere child'. He was rubbing his left forearm as he finished. Ella's sharp eyes caught the action,

'You're injured,' she said pointedly. Morwenna looked up sharply, 'Yusuf!'

The scholar stepped up to dais,

'Please fetch my herbs and salves, maybe a few of your own as well. If Bellême's spell was as dark as I suspect, then I will need to see Hugh's wound as soon as I am finished here.'

'Certainly, Lady.' As Yusuf scuttled away, Hugh tried to protest,

'Lady, it is nothing…'

'Don't be absurd,' she snapped at him harshly, 'Do you want to be known as Hugh One-Hand for the rest of your life?'

Hugh simply glowered, but did not reply.

'Stop making a nuisance of yourself. Sit down and finish your tale,' Morwenna commanded. Hugh remained silent, his features darkening. Hamon took a step away from his father, keen to not be associated with Hugh's stubborn resolve. Morwenna glanced at him again. With a displeased grunt, Hugh backed down first and seated himself at the large table, scowling at the stifled sniggers that ruffled through the hall. Only Bayard dared to laugh openly and even this was done in a subdued manner.

'Lord Alain, despite the wound, insisted we should stay long enough to see the rebel's defeated,' Hugh ultimately continued, rubbing his face wearily, 'Rumours eventually drifted in that Curthose had abandoned the rebels. With no support, the rebel's surrendered. Rufus was lenient. Only his uncle was banished whilst the rest of the vipers were accepted back into the fold, Bellême amongst them. By this time, Lord Alain's wound was festering and despite Isolde's best efforts, the King deemed it necessary for him to return to Avalon. As soon as the King gave us leave, we rode here as swiftly as we could.' 

The older inhabitants of the hall breathed out a sigh of relief at the news that the rebellion had been crushed. Godric, Salazar and Hamon shared a look, holding back a groan of disappointment.

'Foolish man,' Morwenna breathed, shaking her head at her husband's stubbornness, 'if you had the sense to heal this properly then you may have been able to avoid infection. If the curse had bitten deeper, then you could have been crippled, or worse. You'll certainly be limping for quite some time.' Alain shrugged drunkenly,

'I've been crippled since the day I became Lord of Avalon,' he said tiredly,

'Do you regret it?' Morwenna challenged him.

‘Never,' he chuckled, smiling fondly, 'you were bathing in the pool beside the hanging willow…' Morwenna slapped his leg, right where his flesh was bruised and reddened, causing Alain to roar in agony. It achieved her goal of silencing him, although the bright blush which flooded the usually demure woman's face betrayed her chagrin at her husband's drunken rambling. Godric couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him, and it was joined by many others. Ella's feline smile had returned, as if she didn't quite believe her luck. 

As Alain groaned in pain, Morwenna returned her attention to his wound with added vigour and it wasn't long before she stood and claimed that she done all she could for now to cleanse the leg of the poisons which infected it. Binding it in clean linens, she signalled for someone to help Alain to his private chamber so that he could rest, although when Hugh stood she snapped at him to stay still so that she could tend to his wounds. This duty fell to Alain's squires, who helped lead Alain to his bedchamber and saw to his needs. They tried to ignore his drunken ramblings, often having to bite their tongues to avoid laughing as he chortled and cursed about old stories stirred from the mists of time. However, as they were leaving, Alain caught Godric's attention as the young boy was about to step over the threshold.

'Godric,' Alain blurted out, his bleary eyes searching the chamber hazily before fixing upon the young boy, 'I almost forgot, I saw your father recently'. Godric frowned before asking emotionlessly.

'You did, Lord?'

'Aye,' Alain continued tiredly, 'despite his faults your father's still a loyal man, especially to the King. He was in good spirits, so good that he didn't even seem to mind my presence.' Godric merely stared at Alain questioningly. His lack of response caused Alain to sigh deeply,

'His wife is pregnant.'

Emotionally, the words struck Godric like a sword-blow, although outwardly his stoic expression remained unchanged. Pregnant! In his drunken state, Alain didn't seem to sense the tempest of emotions doing battle in Godric's mind.

'I'm sorry, but he made no mention of you, or showed any interest in knowing how you fared,' he paused for a moment, smiling sadly, 'however, I was approached by your father's man, Siward isn't it? I suspect it was done in secret, but he appeared honest in his motivations. He was pleased to hear how well you were progressing in Avalon and wanted you to know that he looks forward to seeing the man you will become.' 

Godric still looked unmoved and he didn't reply as Alain slowly drifted off to sleep after a response wasn't forthcoming. Yet, when he finally made to leave, he heard Alain raise his voice again,

'By the way, go and bathe. I can't have my squires stinking of shit!' 

At last, this brought a faint smile to Godric's lips as he slipped into the dark hallway. The smile slowly vanished as he made his way back to his own sleeping quarters. The news of the impending pregnancy had instantly robbed him of any wish he may have had to seek out Alain's retainers and listen to their tales of war.

In the privacy of his own chamber, he felt a restlessness surge deep within him. He was wallowing in rage. His wand, nestled in his belt, sparked in response to the sudden rush of emotions and he felt a hatred for the man who had maimed his uncle. 

Bellême. The warrior who had beaten and bullied him; whose visage so resembled the jeering, blood-stained knight who haunted his dreams. Godric's rage begged for release and he promised that he would drive himself to exhaustion until he was powerful enough to defeat Bellême.

Godric turned and with a sudden grunt, struck the wall so hard the blow left a small dent in the wooden wall. He felt a stinging hatred for his father also, but this was tempered and cold, less heated than the boiling fury he reserved solely for Bellême. His father was to have another child. Godric was going to have a sibling. His father thought nothing of sharing his celebratory news with strangers, yet of Godric he wished to know nothing. Godric's head hung down and he felt the fresh stirrings of the loss he hadn't felt since first reaching Avalon's gates. If the child was a son, then he would be disinherited and forbidden from setting foot in his childhood home for fear that he would attempt to oust his brother.

Godric collapsed upon the feathered bed, his head in his hands. His anger simmered away. Faint wisps of half-hearted jealousy for this unborn child were conjured in his heart, but he quickly dismissed them. He couldn't hate an innocent child for the crimes and prejudices of its father. Whether his mother-in-law gave birth to a son or a daughter, Godric decided it mattered little. If the opportunity arose, then he would be there for this unknown child, like William had once been and like how Salazar and Hamon were there for him now. Godric sighed as he slipped into sleep. His dreams were troubled for many nights.


	10. Brothers

Autumn 1090

Magic was a strange beast. After spending three years being tutored in it, Godric had come to understand this fundamental rule. As the youth stood in Avalon's small tiltyard, his wand outstretched before him, he contemplated his ability to channel magic to his will. On the one hand, it was a force for good, a gift bestowed on magical people to help those in need and defend them against the ever-encroaching influence of the dark arts. On the other, it was malleable and fickle, easily bent to the will and interests of the wizard who called upon it, for good or ill.

Yet, what Godric found most strange was how even under the guidance of the most talented wizard, magic was barely controllable. It was like a leashed beast, subservient and domesticated whilst under a strong hand. However, once unleashed, it was as wild and unpredictable as a feral wolf, capable of tearing at all those who stood in its way, even the wizard who had sought to wield it.

CRACK! 

A vicious spell soared just wide of his shoulder and crackled as it collided with the stone keep. Godric was rudely dislodged from his thoughts as his mind instantly focused on the task at hand. His body spun sideways, easily avoiding another spell which had barrelled towards him in quick succession after the first and sparked as it hit the ground behind him. Standing again, Godric waved his own wand and a bright shield erupted before him. A loud clang resonated around the bailey, like metal being struck, echoed over the tiltyard as Godric's shield shimmered but held in place. From behind it, Godric grinned at his opponent.

'Good,' Alain acknowledged with a smile, 'but never lose focus. My first could have ended you if I'd wanted it,'

'Are you dreaming again old man,' Godric retorted. Alain barked with laughter before his wand flashed again. Another spell collided with Godric's shield, far stronger than the last. The shield absorbed the blast, before shattering. Godric dived hastily away as a spell followed through, scorching the ground where he'd been stood a moment before. Godric rolled, felt the heat of another spell explode beside him, before darting up and parrying Alain's next with a flourish. Only this time, Godric countered. With a cry, he sent a spell flying before firing a second swiftly after. Alain summoned a loose stone at the edge of the yard to intercept the first, which turned to ice as the spell impacted against it. He battered the next aside before conjuring a spear and sending it hurtling towards his young opponent.

With a grunt, Godric dived beneath the shining spearhead. With a flick of his wand, the spear was transfigured into a frothing hound.

'Attack,' he yelled and the conjured beast growled before darting towards Alain. Godric sent a flurry of spells after it, hoping to distract his master but Alain wasn't considered one of the most powerful wizards in Britain for nothing. His shield shone far brighter than Godric's and barely shimmered as it deflected Godric's bombardment away effortlessly, gifting Alain enough time to vanish the hound, which vanished with a pitiful whimper.

Alain's foot turned cold. Glancing down, he discovered his foot covered in ice and cemented firmly to the ground, the culmination of one of Godric's freak spell's getting through whilst his attention was on not being savaged by the transfigured hound. He heard a shout in the distance and was forced to use his wand defensively as several spells exploded towards him, batting each one aside before quickly releasing his foot from its freezing bind

Momentarily open to an attack, Alain was astonished that no spell came to finish him. The older man paused to see whether his nephew would strike. Yet Godric hesitated, before sending a half-hearted spell fizzing through the air. Alain didn't even bother to deflect it. He advanced forwards, firing spells in rapid succession. Godric, as agile and swift as he was, attempted to avoid the worst of them but struggled as Alain's spell rate increased in intensity.

Godric raised his wand and cast his own shield, falling predictably into his uncle's trap. A flick of the wand caused a large stone to hurtle from the outer rim of the tiltyard and struck Godric's legs from behind, toppling him with a yelp. The boy reacted quickly and attempted to regain his feet, ducking under one spell and deflecting another before a vicious red light struck him in the chest, sending him flying backwards to collapse into the dirt, unconscious.

When he regained consciousness, his uncle stood over him. The Lord of Avalon's jaw was clenched, and his eyes burned with anger.

'You held back,’ Alain said sternly as Godric shook his sore head, 'you held back Godric and I know why? Do you think I'm crippled? Do you think it is dishonourable to duel with men like me?'

'Lord, I swear I didn't…'

'Don't lie to me, Godric,' Alain interrupted his nephew’s excuses coldly, 'you're a terrible liar!' 

Seeing Godric's head hang down in shame elicited a deep sigh from the older man.

'I don't understand why this behaviour continues,' he told his nephew, 'you have the talent and potential to equal any wizard. By Merlin, you certainly have the power. Yet still, you hesitate when the time comes to strike.'

'My magic,' admitted Godric mournfully, 'it still fluctuates…'

'Only because you let it,' Alain told him firmly, 'Merlin Godric, do you not realise how far you've come since you first arrived here. Does it matter if you lack the finesse that Salazar possesses? You make up for that with your creativity and physicality. Your use and knowledge of combat spells and transfiguration are truly remarkable for a boy your age.'

'Salazar still beats me.'

'Salazar is two years your senior and his spell-work differ from yours. Salazar is cunning and fights like a serpent, testing his opponent and assessing their weaknesses before striking. Facing you in a magical duel is like a seafarer facing a storm. If your opponent can weather it then you will tire, and they will best you. Salazar understands this. Why don't you adapt the guile you so effortlessly command on the tiltyard for your magical duels; the strokes of a wand are not so dissimilar to those of a blade.'

Godric nodded, understanding what his uncle was telling him. He had adapted everything he had learned in sword practice to his wand-work, to fruitful results. The problem was entirely mental.

He didn't trust the magic within him. When he saw his uncle stranded in place, he had raised his wand to press his sudden advantage. Yet, the strength of his desire to strike made him falter. His magic was wild and uncontrollable, rearing its head like a savage beast. The intensity of this violent desire had petrified him so much that his wilful struggle to subdue it had caused his brief hesitation. By the time he had wrestled it back under his control, the chance to act was lost and his uncle's temper ignited. Whilst he could hold his own and sometimes press his uncle during their mock duels, there were few wizards who could confidently face the Lord of Avalon when angered.

Alain pressed a hand to his nephew's shoulder, looking sympathetic.

'The confidence to trust yourself will come in time, Godric,'

'If you insist, Lord,' Godric responded dully, 'I'm sorry if you thought I hesitated because of your…mm,' he was lost for words, gesturing wordlessly at Alain's leg. His uncle chuckled,

'There is nothing to forgive. I know you don't see me as less of a man because of it.' Godric nodded earnestly, although it still pained him to mention it. Ever since his uncle had recovered from the wound he'd received at Bellême's hands, the Lord of Avalon had walked with a clear limp. Where his enemies and rivals saw a weakened cripple, those who knew and loved him saw no difference, for he was still the same Alain who was both feared and admired across the kingdom. His wounded leg had certainly not dulled the adoration Godric felt for his uncle.

Alain dismissed Godric with a wave of his hand, telling him to go and rest before his sword practice with Hugh began. Stretching sore muscles, Godric walked away, heading towards the keep in eager pursuit of a quick meal before he'd have to return to the tiltyard. Forcing away his frustrations with his recent wizarding duel, he passed Salazar as he entered the keep's main gate. Neither boy shared a glance. In fact, both boys were content to ignore each other, passing by without a word.

Over the three years since Godric's arrival, the Lord of Avalon's three squires had grown as close as brothers. They shared everything, bickered constantly and mocked each other mercilessly. They performed their duties together and were trained for war as a team, so that when the time came, they would protect each other during a fight.

There were no secrets between them. Godric and Hamon even knew that Salazar had a pet adder in which he could curiously communicate with in hushed hisses. Godric found this talent intriguing and had no qualms with bombarding the older boy with inquisitive questions, especially when Salazar had admitted that it was his snake, acting on his orders, which had bitten Bellême's ankle at the King's coronation. It unsettled Hamon greatly, but even he eventually accepted its presence, although he'd made Salazar swear that he'd never release the snake into his chamber if Hamon ever took his ridiculing too far.

However, recently this cordial dynamic had changed.

Petty jealousies were usually accepted and quickly ignored. Yet, when it came to their exploits with the opposite sex, then the relationship between the boys often become fraught. When Salazar had reached the age of sixteen, he had quickly discovered the certain joys that women could offer. With his tall, darkly handsome features and charming wit, he quickly became a very popular member of Avalon's household, especially with the female proportion of the community. He could often be found whispering in a maid's ear and he openly admitted that he loved making them blush with sweet words.

A year younger than his fellow squire, Hamon too had found himself on the receiving end of an increasing popularity with Avalon's maids. He was extremely affable, with a ready laugh and a constant smile whose guileless face seemed to encourage immediate trust. Both boys had admitted to Godric that they had some experience in the pleasures that intimacy with a woman could bring. But whilst many of Hamon's boasts were extravagant and easily discounted, Salazar's comments were understated. Only once had he openly boasted of his exploits and that was when he had admitted that he had used Ella's services, much to Hamon's irritation

Hamon had scowled and scoffed at Salazar's assertion. Salazar had merely smirked, knowing that Hamon held a heartfelt torch for Avalon's resident whore and that his silence would irk his friend more than any words could. Hamon had brooded moodily before his curiosity got the better of him,

'What was it like?'

'Brilliant,' Salazar had grinned before Hamon had insisted on hearing every detail, much to Godric’s amusement. At fourteen, Godric held no interest in experiencing this kind of relationship yet. Not that he wasn't interested, as he could appreciate a pretty face, often turning red when his voice would break or stutter like an idiot if Ella or one of Avalon's maids flashed him a smile. It was just that Godric's preoccupation with becoming a knight bested any other desire he felt. Besides, in Godric's eyes, his attractiveness paled in comparison with the likes of Hamon and Salazar. Although he had come far from the sickly child he had once been, he couldn't seem to stop growing and he had yet to adapt to gangly limbs which rendered his movements awkward. Ultimately, his child-like eagerness to pursue other past-times had highlighted the age gap between the squires and caused contention within the trio. 

This was especially evident between Godric and Salazar.

Hamon shared Godric's desire to become a knight and as a Muggle he was expected to follow in his father's footsteps. As such, he could sympathise with Godric's readiness to constantly practice his swordplay. Salazar had no such desire. Although he was a proficient swordsman, he found it dull, time-consuming work and preferred to concentrate on his magical gifts rather than the skills which may keep him alive if he was ever to lose his wand. He believed that learning to master Muggle weapons was a demeaning task for a wizard, although he had only admitted this belief to Godric. This put him at direct loggerheads with Alain's youngest squire.

This came to a head when Godric had approached Salazar whilst the older squire was flirting with three of Morwenna's handmaidens. Hamon couldn't be found and eager to practice what he had recently learned in the tiltyard, Godric had hoped Salazar would entertain him as his friend had earlier promised. Salazar had been impressing the girls by juggling spinning marbles using wandless magic. Godric's boisterous interruption had caused Salazar to lose his focus, the marbles dropping to the floor with a clatter,

'What do you want?' Salazar said irritably, scarcely glancing at him,

'You promised to spar with me,' Godric said, completely oblivious to Salazar's rising irritation,

'I'll do it later,' Salazar said dismissively. Godric frowned,

'When? We've got chores to do later.'

'Then we'll have to miss it,'

'But…'

'For Merlin's sake, just piss off Godric,' Salazar finally hissed. Godric stood unmoving, shocked by Salazar's anger. When he didn't move, Salazar feature's twisted into a mocking smile, 'why don't you act like a good little boy and go and polish your sword.' 

He spoke slowly as if he addressed a fool rather than a friend. The handmaidens instantly descended into a chorus of knowing giggles at Salazar's innuendo and instantly sided with the handsome Salazar over the bumbling Godric. Godric had felt his face burning with humiliation he hadn't felt since his years in Black-Hollow. Salazar had already turned his back on him, dismissing him without a word, as if he was a mere servant. Godric had been furious, but he had forced down the violent impulse to throttle his friend. He had glared daggers into Salazar's back, before turning swiftly away from the fresh titters and adoring gasps of the handmaidens as they marvelled at Salazar's showboating display of magic.

It wasn't in Godric's name to hold a grudge. However, he found the ease in which Salazar had insulted him hard to accept. Weeks had passed without a word being passed between them and although Salazar had half-heartedly attempted to rebuild the bridges between them, Godric had ignored his attempts at peace-making. Their behaviour did not go unnoticed. Hamon was visibly frustrated with both of them, Alain was nonplussed and no one was more persistent in their efforts to try and determine what had happened to turn Salazar and Godric's relationship so sour than the Lady Morwenna.

Yet, no details were forthcoming and no attempts to bring them together worked. For weeks, Godric, usually the most cheerful of all the residents in Avalon, had become sullen as he brooded on how best to exact some revenge; some way of making Salazar feel the same humiliation that he had experienced.

Godric stuffed a meagre meal into his mouth and hastily sprinted over to the tiltyard, where Alain's retainers were gathering in preparation for their daily practice. He reached Hugh, who greeted him by nodding at a bundle of polished practice-swords, blunted blades dulled with enchantments to avoid fatalities, but which were still capable of severe bruising and breaking bones. As Godric began stretching in preparation for the day's trials, he passed a group of giggling maids, who were all staring at Salazar with wonder.

Godric rolled his eyes. This group of maids had become a recurring audience, especially when Salazar was attending their training bouts. Surprisingly even more of Avalon's household were gathered about the tiltyard, including Ella, who was listening patiently to Hamon's blustering attempts to flirt with her and who sent Godric a flirtatious wink over Hamon's shoulder. Godric ignored it, his mind fixed on the task at hand as he took his place opposite Salazar, who was busy flamboyantly entertaining his admiring audience. Godric froze as his eyes bore into Salazar with an intensity, causing Hugh, who as always watched on with a mentoring eye from the tiltyard's boundary, to raise a questioning eye in his direction.

Finally, Salazar readied himself opposite the younger squire. Hugh hesitated as he raised his hand high, feeling a faint flicker on unease at the palpable tension between the squires. Then after the briefest pause, he brought his arm down, signalling with a shout for the bout to begin. Godric was moving before Hugh's arm had even finished its descent.

Every day for two years, Avalon's castellan had put Godric through a punishing regime. He had practiced hour after hour, slowly mastering an expertise in a range of weaponry. With the discovery that he was ambidextrous, Hugh had pushed him even harder, honing Godric's instincts through backbreaking drills. Combined with Godric's unwavering commitment to accomplish every challenge Hugh had thrown at him, the young squire was being shaped into a formidable fighter despite his age. Alain's narrow escape from the clutches of death, as well as his thirst for revenge on Bellême, had encouraged Godric's efforts further.

Yet, it was Salazar's taunting behaviour which had spurred Godric to force his body beyond its usual limits. Every available moment was spent with a sword in his hand, practicing the sword-dance and conditioning his body to use the weight and balance of the blade to his own advantage. His behaviour may have become awkward and his movements jilted since his growth spurt, but with a sword in his hand, he was both elegant and poised. There was a reason why only Hugh, Alain and Bayard of all those in Avalon could still defeat Godric with a sword. Hamon could hold his own well enough and was turning into a formidable swordsman, but even he found it impossible to break past Godric's impenetrable defence or withstand the younger boy's ferocity in attack. If Salazar hadn't gone to such lengths to purposefully avoid weapons-training at every given opportunity, then he may have anticipated what was to come as Godric charged towards him with a sword twirling in his hand.

Salazar's eyes barely had time to register the speed in which Godric wielded the sword or the vicious intent which burned in his eyes. He managed to parry once, twice, then felt a thundering blow strike his stomach. The force of it sent him crashing to the ground, groaning as the wind was driven out of him. Even when clad in a thick gambeson, Salazar could expect to have a vivid welt across his body where Godric's blow had landed.

Instead of pressing his advantage, Godric simply stepped away and waited for Salazar to regain his feet. He wasn't smiling, remaining tense and eager to go again. Gritting his teeth in anger, Salazar lurched to his feet, his mind now solely fixated on teaching Godric a much-needed lesson in how to respect his elders. This time, when Hugh roared for them to spar again, it was Salazar who leapt forward first.

Godric danced aside, avoiding each of Salazar's blow before sidestepping a brutal thrust. Twisting his wrist, his sword gently nudged Salazar's own away. The older squire stumbled as he overstretched and Godric, using his momentum to bring the sword around his head and drive it down upon Salazar's back before his opponent could recover.

Salazar yelled out in pain as the blunted blade crashed down on his shoulders, driving his face into the mud. The audience had descended into silence. There were no whistles of encouragement from Salazar's admirers, whilst Hamon and the rest of Alain's retinue were watching on with gaping mouths. Even Hugh seemed mildly surprised by this exhibition of ruthless dominance and humiliation. When Salazar clambered to his feet uncertainly and cleared his vision of the clogging mud, he found Godric once again refusing to press his advantage. Only this time, a satisfied smirk flickered in the corner of his mouth.

Salazar saw red. He leapt forward with a snarl. The savagery of his attack forced Godric to meet them with his own. They exchanged a quick flurry of blows and Salazar was astonished to see that whilst Godric was on the defensive, he seemed perfectly at ease with it. Whenever Salazar pressed him, Godric parried it; when Salazar hacked out then Godric would dance easily away. The older squire couldn't seem to land a blow until finally, his frustrations overwhelmed him, and he hacked out wildly.

Godric ducked, his sword already answering. Salazar yelled out in pain as the blade struck his knee, forcing the limb to collapse beneath him. He tried to keep Godric at bay with a desperate swipe, but the younger boy avoided it and delivered a bruising blow which sent Salazar crashing to the ground in an undignified heap.

Their audience looked on in shock. The young, bumbling Godric had dominated this fight. Salazar lay groaning in the mud, his body aching from Godric's blows, as the younger squire bent down and muttered quietly,

'Maybe you should spend a little more time polishing your sword!'

Perhaps it was the result of being beaten so ruthlessly by a boy two years his junior, or maybe it was the humiliation of it all being witnessed by so many people. Even Rhyannon had seen it, for she watched on with wide, disbelieving eyes. Something suddenly snapped inside Salazar. As Godric began to walk away, Salazar shouted out with fury,

'Mudblood!' The echo of Salazar's voice rebounded off Avalon's walls as everyone fell silent. Godric turned and frowned at his opponent,

'What?' he asked in confusion, unfamiliar with the phrase. However, he heard the insult in Salazar's tone and his own rage began to stir,

'Salazar!' Hugh roared, sounding suddenly furious. Salazar ignored him, glaring at Godric as he struggled to his feet,

'You heard me,' the squire wheezed, still struggling for breath 'that's what we call wizards like you. Fucking Mudbloods!'

Godric remembered little of what followed. He didn't understand what Salazar had said, but he recognised it as an insult from the sneer on Salazar’s face. This wasn't just some petty slur spoken in the heat of the moment. It was personal and intended to hurt. Godric snapped and he felt his rage, bottled up and channelled for so long into his martial pursuits, suddenly roared like a wild beast. He couldn't remember dropping his sword and charging forwards like an enraged bull; couldn't remember the sting of Salazar's spell as the older squire managed to pull out his wand and send a crackling hex which sliced across his cheek. He barely realised he had batted away Salazar's outstretched hand, knocking the wand from his grasp. His other hand was already flying forwards with a hammering blow that sent Salazar spinning as their bodies collided and Godric tackled him. They landed heavily, struggling for supremacy. Godric felt Salazar's fist strike his face and a foot kick out at his torso, but the younger boy shrugged the blow off and hammered his fist into Salazar's face for a second time, stunning his opponent instantly with the strength of it.

Godric's broad frame and hard-won strength earned him an immediate advantage over the lean Salazar and for once, he did not hesitate. He was blind to all but his fury, his control completely evaporating. Blow after blow rained down on Salazar. Yet, Godric was dimly aware of screaming and shouting, of hands grappling with his shoulders in a futile attempt to pull him away from the unfortunate Salazar. Godric was gone, all reason having fled and reacting purely on an all-encompassing instinct which could only be sated with blood.

Then a fist collided with his face. The crunching blow flung Godric away, finally dislodging him from Salazar's bruised and battered body. Godric recovered quickly, rearing up and ready to leap at his attacker. But two pairs of strong arms enveloped him, dragging him away. Godric fought against them, spitting and screaming to be released until a powerful punch to the stomach floored him, sending him choking and gasping to his knees.

Sense slowly returned to his clouded mind. Lifting his head, he was stunned at the scene. He was being held firmly by both Hamon and Bayard. Hamon's eyes were wide with shock, unable to comprehend what had happened, whilst Bayard's was uncharacteristically grim. Neither met his gaze. A crowd had gathered around Salazar, whose lay in a state of semi-consciousness, groaning in misery. He was a mess. His handsome face was already swelling and coated with blood. The maids stood nearby, staring in horror as tears streamed down their faces. Isolde was kneeling over him, checking over his wounds sternly. Amidst it all stood Hugh, looking thunderous. Godric had never seen Troll-Bane this angry,

'Take care of that,' he growled at Isolde, gesturing at Salazar's moaning form. He barely spared Godric a glance. The younger boy felt sick as a wave of emotion threatened to overwhelm him at the look in his mentor's eyes; disappointment. He barely heard Hugh order his son to carry Godric away.

The journey to the stables was spent in silence. Only the rustle of Avalon's horses and disgruntled barks and hoots of the other beasts in Alain's possession disturbed the peace. For a long time, both boys were willing to break the silence. Godric was still in a dark mood, content to examine his bruised knuckles where small flickers of blood had escaped his split skin. Hamon looked lost, although the repeated glances in Godric's direction showed how unsure he was that the violent rage which had consumed his friend had fully abated.

'I'm calm, Hamon,' Godric finally mumbled, feeling drained and irritated by Hamon's concern,

'Are you sure?' Hamon asked, looking unconvinced. When Godric reassured the older boy, Hamon sighed and did not hide his relief,

'Thank, God,' he said, watching Godric closely, 'what the hell was that?'

'What the hell was what?'

'Don't be a dick,' Hamon said surprisingly harshly, 'I've never seen you, or anyone, act like that. You went berserk. You just beat the living shit out of Sal.'

'Bastard deserved it, he humiliated me,' replied Godric dully, 'in front of the maids…'

'So, you humiliated him in front of us all?' asked Hamon, 'Christ Godric, you know how much thinking Salazar's being doing with his prick lately. Did it really warrant that?'

'Yes…no…I don't know!'

'You better figure it out before my father finds you,' Hamon sighed again, shaking his head, 'Look, I know Salazar. I know what an arrogant and infuriating bastard he can be, and he must have done something to have warranted bringing that out of you. But to humiliate him like that, it was pretty ruthless.'

'What does it mean?' Godric interrupted, ‘Mudblood?'

Hamon fell silent. When no answer came, Godric looked over to find the Muggle looking troubled. Hamon shrugged uncomfortably,

'I don't know much,' he admitted, 'but I've heard it before. I don't know exactly what it means, only that it's a wizard's insult. Something about having dirty blood.'

'Dirty blood?'

'I think it's an insult for a wizard whose blood isn't considered pure. A wizard whose parents weren't wizards.'

'So, it's an insult for a wizard like me?' Hamon shrugged exasperatedly.

'I don't know Godric,' he exclaimed, 'remember that I'm a Muggle. For God's sake, I can barely understand what wizards do.'

‘Why would Salazar say that?' Godric asked, ignoring him. Hamon watched him as if he was stupid.

‘Can't you see that he's jealous?'

'Jealous?' Godric remained incredulously. Hamon nodded sagely,

'He's always been jealous,' Hamon confirmed, 'ever since you came here. He hides it well and I suspect it makes him feel guilty, how envious you make him. You're like a brother to him, hell, we're all brothers…'

'But…what?' Godric was still astounded by the revelation. Hamon rolled his eyes,

'Look at it from Sal's point of view,' explained Hamon, 'before you arrived at Avalon, Salazar was the golden boy. The intelligent and good-looking apprentice to the Lord of Avalon. Let's face it, he's capable when it comes to magic. Then suddenly here you are. Small, weak, untrained, pathetic.'

‘But, you're already powerful, a child two years Salazar's junior who somehow managed to conjure up a wave of magic which put one of the most infamous wizards in the kingdom on his arse and that was before you knew anything of magic. Since then, you've gone from strength to strength. I mean, you're not as good as me, I'm a delight. Yet, you're practically a different person from the one who came here. So, there's Sal, who's green with envy at your potential but still can't bring himself to hate you. You're rather likable.'

'I still don't understand it?' stuttered Godric,

'I can,' Hamon admitted sadly, although the fond smile never left his face, 'I can understand how jealous you make him. Hell, I’m jealous of the both of you for having a power that I can only hope to comprehend and will never possess. But I'm content with my lot. Salazar can be a dick and he will have hated what you've just done. Yet, for all his faults, he's loyal and a good friend. Give him some space, then let him come to you because he will do. One day soon he'll come, and it'll be with an apology rather than a wand.' 

He suddenly laughed, looking mischievous as he clapped the younger squire on the shoulder,

'Certainly won't be with a sword,' Hamon joked, 'not after that. Carry on like this and you might be mistaken for me. Well, a scrawny, red-headed and bloody uglier version anyway…'

Godric would never admit it to his face, but Hamon was right. It took two days before Salazar summoned the courage to approach him. During that time, the boys had gone to great lengths to avoid each other. Godric's hand ached constantly and his split knuckles were almost always covered in a healing salve to ward against infection. The cut on his face, the result of Salazar's hex, stung constantly and an ugly bruise blemished one eye. Salazar looked worse, judging by the glimpses Godric had seen as Salazar trudged sullenly around the keep with a face covered in a myriad of bruises, swellings, and cuts.

Godric hated it. Almost overnight, his life at Avalon had turned into a nightmare reminiscent of his memories of Black-Hollow. People avoided him and appeared cautious in his presence, as if one careless word could send him into a berserk rage. Few had spoken to him since the fight. One memorable moment came when Alain and Morwenna had summoned him to their private chamber to covertly condemn his actions and punish him accordingly. Godric had taken the punishment without comment. In fact, he had barely spoken to anyone. The anger and disappointment which had shone from Alain and Morwenna's eyes had bitten deep, fuelling a wave of self-loathing which had thrown him into a bleak depression. Hamon had tried to put it in perspective, informing him that their anger at Godric was nothing compared to the fury they had unleashed on Salazar, but Godric didn't care. He felt as if he had betrayed their trust. Not even the knowledge that Hugh had spoken up in his defence seemed to ease the young boy’s grief.

It was late when Salazar finally found him. Godric was wedged into a small crack behind the statue of Bedwyr, Arthur's famous one-handed warrior. This was a place where Godric could seek solitude and a moment's peace away from the bustle of Avalon's great hall. Only Salazar and Hamon knew of its existence.

Salazar didn't say anything for a long time, even after he had shifted into a comfortable position. Godric just stared at him, noticing how the moonlight put the beating he had unleashed on the unfortunate squire into sharp relief. Godric forced down the wave of guilt which threatened to choke him. Salazar, usually so confident and assured, seemed to wilt under the red-head’s piercing gaze.

In the end, it was up to Godric to break the uneasy silence,

'I know what Mudblood means. Do you really think my blood is not pure?' Finally, Salazar met Godric's accusation in surprise. He opened his mouth, closed it again quickly, then shook his head and sighed heavily,

'No,' he said earnestly, averting his eyes again, 'of course not. I've witnessed the power you possess and you’re Lord Alain's nephew. No one can deny your magical heritage.

'Then why did you say it?'

'I don't know,' Salazar admitted with a shrug. Godric waited a moment, but when Salazar remained unforthcoming with his response, he felt the familiar stirring of frustration,

'Are you jealous of me?'

'What? Of course not!'

'Hamon thinks you are,' he said with brutal honesty. It worked, as Salazar glanced at him sharply,

'Hamon's got a loose tongue.'

'Is he right?'

'Is he ever?' Salazar countered waspishly, ‘what do you want me to say?’

'Just tell me the truth!'

'Then yes,' Salazar suddenly cried, 'yes, I do envy you. How can I not compare us, when everyone adores you? You're the pride of Avalon!'

'What are you talking about?' Godric said in bewilderment at the older boys claim.

'Everyone considers you the good one; the one with power and potential. Look what you managed when you faced Bellême.'

'Are you mad?' Godric exclaimed, 'I survived that encounter through sheer luck and you know it! Or can you not remember the part you played that day?' Salazar shook his head angrily, ignoring Godric's attempt at reasoning with him.

'Besides, you are blood-related to Lord Alain…'

'Blood doesn't mean anything!'

'You're wrong,' Salazar snapped, 'you are so naive when it comes to our customs. Blood is everything!'

The boys glared at each other.

'Salazar,' Godric growled slowly, trying to calm is rising frustration, 'being Alain's nephew is not important. Surely, you know that Alain and Morwenna have treated us equally like sons. Over the last few years, Avalon has felt more like a home to me than all my years at Black-Hollow. Don’t you see that this household is our family?'

'Don't talk to me about family', Salazar muttered brusquely, breaking the stony silence, which had met Godric's appeal. Godric stared at him,

'Why?' he asked slowly, knowing that he was breaking an untold agreement. Salazar had never mentioned his family or shared any details of his life before he came to Avalon. It was an unspoken agreement between them. Godric never talked about the loved ones who had been taken from him or the abuse he had suffered at his father’s hands, whilst Hamon never mentioned his own mother, although Godric wasn't even sure if his friend knew much about the woman who had given birth to him. Still, details concerning these bitter subjects could be guessed or easily assumed. The same couldn't be said for Salazar, who guarded the secrecy of his past closely.

'What are you scared of?'

'Because they're dead!' Salazar suddenly cried. Then in a defeated voice, 'my family are dead.'

Godric just stared at his friend, his face paling. 

'What happened?' he blurted out, then cursed his own idiocy, 'I’m sorry.'

'No,' Salazar interrupted him. He sighed, rubbing his face tiredly, 'it's about time you knew.'

'Look, Sal, if you don't…'

'Its fine,' Salazar said, 'I'm what wizards call a Pureblood, as I come from a long line of wizards. The Slytherin's were Iberian, descendants of the great wizard Atlantes, Lord of Illusions. We were once a powerful family and held in high esteem by the people. Then the Muggles, fearing our magic, turned against us. My ancestors fled from the persecution and settled in Flanders, where I was born. It was a prosperous place, one of their merchant towns. My father was a likeable man and became rich from helping others with his magic. My mother was a Flemish witch and the envy of the town; a jewel. My cousins all lived with us and we practised our magic openly, free of the persecution we had suffered in Spain. They were good days.

'But Muggles are quick to hate,' Salazar spat viciously, 'you know as well as I do that not all Muggles are as good-natured as Hamon. It began with a disappearance. A young boy went missing and rumours abounded. At first, the Jews were blamed, as they often are by Christians. Then the boy was found, murdered, near our home. The good-feeling of our friends and neighbours suddenly turned venomous. I can remember my grandfather trying to persuade father to put up protective wards. He'd seen this prejudice before, experienced the same fears as a boy. 

‘But father didn't listen, insisting that his lifelong friends would not be turned against him by the lies of lesser men. Then my family was accused of the murder. It began with insults and slander. I remember one day, my mother returned from visiting the markets, battered and filthy. The townsfolk had thrown filth and stones at her before chasing her away. She begged my father to abandon the town, but he was a proud man and refused. I…I've hated him ever since, hated his naivety and indecision.'

Salazar suddenly sobbed and Godric realised that tears were escaping from his friend's tightly shut eyes.

'One night the townsfolk rose up,' the youth stuttered on, 'they came bearing torches and burst into the house before my father could reach his wand and dragged him outside. I can still hear my mother's screams as they butchered him. They robbed the house of riches, seized and broke our wands, then put it to the flame with my family still inside. It still haunts me, the screams of my family; my mother, as the fires consumed them.'

'How did you escape?'

'I wasn't there when the townsfolk attacked. When I was ten, I used to run errands for a merchant, a friend of my grandfathers who remained aloof from the zealous prejudices of others. I was returning home late when it all happened.'

'The thing which really haunts me,' Salazar admitted brokenly, 'is that I should have helped. Instead, I hid. I allowed fear to rule me. It paralysed me as the fires flared and died, leaving nothing but charred ashes and bones. I tried to salvage all I could once the townsfolk had dispersed. I only found a single heirloom, my mother's silver locket, unblemished and emblazoned with my family’s emblem of a snake. I'll show it to you later; its value to me is greater than any king's ransom.'

'Shit,' Godric breathed, shaking his head. It was an insufficient response and he knew it. How does a friend respond appropriately to a tragedy as brutal as the one Salazar had experienced? He had also suffered from persecution, but as loath as he was to admit it, his father's presence had shielded him from the worst of it and Avalon's kaleidoscopic household was as far removed from Salazar's childhood experiences as could be. Godric couldn't even consider what Salazar had seen, or contemplate facing such brutal violence. The sound of his own mother's agonised screams as she died on a bed of blood in Black-Hollows birthing chamber flashed through his mind and he felt an overwhelming sense of pity for his friend. He wrapped his arm around Salazar's shoulder to comfort him.

'I'm sorry,' Godric said earnestly,

'It's not your fault,' Salazar said, wiping his eyes, 'it was the townsfolk who did it, not you.'

'You know that not all Muggle's are like that,'

'I know,' whispered Salazar softly. It was true, as you only had to look at Muggles like Hugh and Hamon to see the honour in their kind.

'How did you escape?' Godric repeated,

'My grandfather's friend,' said Salazar, 'the merchant. He hid me amongst in his warehouses, then aided my escape aboard an old English wool merchants ship. I remembered how my mother had wished to flee to Britain, believing a better life was to be had for wizards here. Once I reached a coastal port I walked the long road to London. I lived in the filth of the river-bed and stole to survive, using my ability to speak to snakes and wandless magic to aid me. Lord Alain discovered me there. He caught me as I tried to steal a purse from Hugh's belt.' 

Despite the tragic nature of Salazar's tale, Godric couldn't help but laugh. The idea that a small child had tried to rob the towering Hugh was absurd.

'I'm surprised he'd didn't break your hand,'

'He tried to strangle me,' Salazar chuckled ruefully, 'but Alain stunned me before I could flee. When I woke, I thought I'd suffer the penalty. Society doesn't suffer thieves lightly, even in the magical world. Instead, I found myself apprenticed to the Lord of Avalon and was accepted into his household.' 

He paused and looked at Godric,

'I'm sorry,' he said honestly, 'for what I said. Your blood is as noble as mine. Seeing the disappointment in Alain's eyes, in the eyes of the man whose intervention saved my life; it made me realise the folly of my words, my actions, and my beliefs. I know that I can be arrogant, vain and a bastard at times. I know that I don't trust Muggles as readily as you and probably never will. I just don't want to be like that boy again, poor and alone. Over the last few months, I've put my own arrogance before my brother. Will you forgive me?'  
Godric answered with a smile,

'All is forgiven,' he replied readily, 'you think too much. For what it's worth, I'm sorry also. I didn't know what I was doing, didn't realise I can do what I did, especially to a brother. I went too far; will you forgive me for it?'

'Merlin, your nobility is insufferable,' Salazar joked, rolling his eyes and thumping Godric lightly on the arm. He winced at the movement, his body still sore and aching from Godric's beating, 'you pack quite the punch, I'll give you that.'

'Sorry,' Godric replied sheepishly, 'Hamon said the same. He also told me you'd come to me to apologise. He's wiser than he lets on.'

'Hamon's about as wise as a donkey's fart,' smiled Salazar, making Godric laugh. It felt good, as though the fissures in their bond were already mending, 'we'll just not tell him about it. I refuse to stoke his ego. Can we just say I beat the shit out of you until you apologised, seeing as you did such a decent job at destroying my reputation as a young   
paladin.'

* * *

The feast of Samhain marked the night when the boundaries between the mortal realm and the otherworld became one. Pagan legend said that the spirits and souls of the dead once again walked the earth, seeking out the hospitality of their kinsmen. Also active were the fairy folk, bringing mischief to unsuspecting people, whilst offerings to dissuade any mischief and ward against wayward spirits were left in the shadows. Huge bonfires burned in Avalon's bailey, beacons which made the island's summit glow bright. The occasion was celebrated annually at Avalon with a great feast. The tables in the great hall were laden with succulent foods and abounded with the joyous merriment of Alain's household. Singing, dancing, and drunken cajoling filled the air.

Amidst the celebrating of Avalon's inhabitants stood Godric, smiling at the scene before him. He sat perched on one of the tables, slightly apart from most of the household who danced in the hall. On the high dais sat Alain, talking quietly to the travelling bard he had employed to supply music for the festivities. The bard was a good-natured wizard who hailed from Ireland and claimed to be related to great kings. Bayard had scoffed, claiming that holding the title of king in Ireland was nothing to boast of when their kingdoms were nothing more than rock-strewn, rain-drenched bogs filled with naked, scraggly-haired wretches, whose only redeeming virtue was their gift for producing beautiful women.   
Godric assumed he was embellishing, but Bayard had spent many years as a mercenary and had fought in many lands beside his old comrade Hadrian. It was possible that the man had spent some time campaigning in Ireland. The Irish bard had been far from insulted, laughing cheerily before agreeing wholeheartedly with the uncouth brute, although he added that they knew how to wage war with the best of them. Bayard had nodded ruefully, as he still had the scars to show for it. Sitting beside the Lord of Avalon was the Irish bard’s son, a little golden-haired boy called Finan, who was currently enraptured by the stories a doting Morwenna weaved for him. Godric smiled warmly at the sight of Lady of Avalon's delight in children and wandered why she had none to call her own.

Gathered around the lower tables were the rest of Avalon's household, where Ella's famous ale was doing the rounds. Hamon, having grown into a formidable young man in the same mould as his father, was gulping down a tankard of it in one hand whilst arm wrestling young Gervais to a chorus of hearty cheers from the watching crowd. Salazar had insisted on making up for their recent discord by spending time with Godric and had been hesitant to abandon him. But after watching the older boy repeatedly glance at Rhyannon, Godric had threatened to punch him again if he didn't respond to the handmaiden’s attentions. Now, Salazar was stood in the shadows of the great hall in Rhyannon’s company. His head was bent low, whispering softly in her ear. Godric was too far removed to hear what was said, but judging by the blush blooming on the young maid's face, it was far from innocent.

'You boys are growing up fast,' an amused voice interrupted his thoughts and Godric turned to find Ella approaching him. Her face was flushed from dancing and an alluring smile graced her face. She placed a hand on Godric's arm and eased herself onto the table beside him, 'you'll all be men soon'.

'Lady Ella,' Godric welcomed her pleasantly, although it was a little guarded. He was always uncomfortable in her presence and he felt his face heating up as her hand squeezed his arm. Salazar's boasts about Ella's sexual prowess seemed to be the only subject he could focus on. Judging by the amused smile on the whore's face, she knew exactly what effect she was having on the youth. She watched the romance blossoming in the hall's shadows.

'Ah, young love,' she said sardonically, 'they're both smitten, aren't they? It won't be long before the foolish girl lifts her skirts for him and lets his seed take root inside her.' She laughed at the prophecy.

'Salazar has more sense than that,' Godric defended his friend, but he didn't sound convincing. He hoped that Salazar had more sense, for he was convinced that Morwenna might castrate the young wizard if their romance was discovered.

'When it comes to their cocks, men have little sense,' Ella said sagely. She looked back at Godric, whose face was burning at her blunt assumption,

'I imagine you know by now that I have bedded Salazar?' she asked him. Godric gulped, finally nodding but unable to look the whore in the eye. She chuckled dryly, 'of course. I expected little else. Did you know that I have laid with every member of Lord Alain's retinue? After all, that is what I'm paid for. To satisfy their needs and ease their frustrations. Even Isolde is no stranger to my bed and I can promise you that it was a delightful experience. It won't be long until your other young friend’s lust forces him to seek me out. Why shouldn't I entertain Hamon? I do enjoy watching his desperate attempts to woo me and he is a promising young man. I'd feel guilty continuing to torture him much longer.'

By this point, Godric could physically feel the heat radiating from his face. It was traditional for Ella to bait the younger members of Alain's household with her alluring nature. But she had always been somewhat reserved. Now, it was as if no barriers existed and Godric began to suspect that the potent ale being consumed was behind her loose tongue.

'Why are you telling me this?' Godric stuttered and Ella glanced at him piercingly. 

'Do not pay heed to idle boasts. Never compare yourself to others. Your friend Salazar was as eager to please as any young buck I've mounted. But he still has much to learn before he becomes the master at pleasuring women that he believes he is,' she cast an admiring eye on Godric and chuckled again, 'Do not consider yourself lesser than your peers, Godric. Your pursuit to become a knight is a wonder to behold. You’re nearly a man and I'd wager that you will surpass Hugh’s size one day if you don't stop growing.' 

'Did you know that my first lover was red haired?' When Godric shook his head, she smiled faintly, 'he was an honourable man and warrior of the old ways, like a hero from song. You often remind me of him, before he left me to pursue glory and met his death. When the time comes, we'll have to see what we can do about tainting that noble character of yours.' 

Godric gulped at the sly smile on the vixen's face and shuffled slightly to hide his growing excitement. She laughed delightedly at his reaction and leaned in close,

‘Lady,' Godric protested weakly,

'I saw how you beat down Slytherin's arrogance,' she crooned, 'and so effortlessly. Tell me Godric, do you think that animal inside you can use something else with the same talent you wield a sword? You'll find me as talented a mentor as Hugh and much more pleasurable…' Godric was rendered completely speechless and merely gaped as Ella leant in closer, her eyes flickering shut…

His hand, suddenly slick with sweat, slipped on the polished table-wood, knocking over his tankard of ale which toppled from its perch with a loud clunk. The noise was loud enough to disturb those closest to them. It also succeeded in breaking the strange spell Ella had cast on the young squire. Godric leapt up from the table, his reddened face quickly blending in with his hair. He turned to stutter a hasty excuse, only to find Ella bent over, her body wracked with laughter. He stared at her in consternation as she slowly recovered and looked at him fondly,

'Oh, Godric, you do amuse me,' she told him warmly, slapping his arm, 'alas, you're still too young, although I didn't lie and do not disregard my intentions. When the time is right, I hope that you will seek me out.'

Godric didn't know what to say, so he decided to keep his mouth shut to avoid looking even more foolish. Her eyes moved to look past his shoulder and her smile turned sly,

'The Lady of Avalon is watching us,' Ella noted wryly and Godric discovered that she was indeed. Morwenna, even though her attentions were still focused on the young Irish boy beside her, was indeed watching on, her eyes narrowed in a disapproving scowl. Her expression caused Ella to cackle mockingly, 'how she would hate it if I got my claws into you.'

Godric looked at the whore in surprise. For the first time, he noticed how flushed her face was and realised that her previous flirtatious actions must have been prompted by the ale she had brewed for the occasion. As Ella took a generous gulp from her goblet, she passed it to Godric, urging him to share the drink. Taking a sensible sip, Godric's curiosity finally overcame his tact,

'Why does Lady Morwenna hate you so much?' It was a question which he had wanted to ask for years. Ella shrugged in reply,

'Maybe she's jealous,' Ella suggested conspiratorially.

'Why would she be jealous?'

'You think a noblewoman can't be jealous of a humble whore?' Ella challenged him before she fell silent for a long moment, 'maybe it's because I can have what she cannot?'

Godric choked on his drink. Spluttering and coughing, he looked at Ella in astonishment.

'Fool, I don't mean you!' She laughed at him, 'even I would be surprised to discover if our noble Lady of Avalon held a flame for her husband's young nephew. No, she adores her husband so much that any other man simply pales in comparison.'

'Then what did you mean?' Again, Ella didn't immediately reply, simply plucking the goblet from his hand and throwing the remaining contents down her throat. Humming contently, she watched Morwenna for a long moment,

'She does like to play the mother, doesn't she?' Ella commented thoughtfully, as Morwenna continued to cast suspicious glances in their direction. Then her attention returned to Godric, 'Do you know much about children, Godric?'

'No,' he replied truthfully. He had little experience with children, even when he was a child and there were only a few children who lived in Avalon. The only child Godric could be considered close too was a young girl now growing up in Black-Hollow and he had never even met her.

All his father's boasts about siring a new son had come to nothing, as his young wife had given birth to a daughter. Tragically, she had died shortly after, her young body succumbing to the perils of childbirth. His new-born sister had been christened Eleanor, after her late mother. Godric hated the idea of another young child, born a disappointment, growing up in the shadow of his father's brooding temperament. Sadly, he still lacked the courage to openly confront his father, not yet anyway. Besides, news of his family's affairs was sparse and only one message had slipped through to bring news of Eleanor's birth. Godric had his suspicions about who had sent it; Siward had always been a loyal follower to his family, even disgraced scions like Godric. 

Ella snorted, shaking her head.

'Of course, you don't; you're a man; what is a child to you other than a means of continuing your bloodline. Children!' She spat in contempt, 'I use potions and herbs to avoid pregnancy or to rid my body of them. Children are a blight on women. Never liked them. They burden you with a life of squealing and shit before they inevitably weaken and die…'

She paused for a moment, her eyes glazing over slightly. Godric, frowning, was just about to inquire if she was alright when she shook herself from her sudden stupor. Her eyes flickered to Godric, before looking away quickly. She looked vulnerable, a state Godric had never see her in before.

'Yet, unlike me,' she finally continued, 'Lady Morwenna has always longed-for children; especially a child with Alain. Like most women, she yearns for a child to call her own. But her belly remains smooth. It's as if a child won't quicken inside her, a human child anyway, being what she is…' 

Godric frowned,

'What do you mean?' Avalon's whore glanced at him as if determining whether she had said too much before deciding to drunkenly throw caution to the wind. She was about to answer when a familiar growl disturbed their conversation.

'Ella!' They both turned to find Hugh looming over them, his arms crossed in disapproval.

'Hugh?' she answered innocently,

'Ella,' Avalon's castellan told her sternly, 'you've said enough!'

'Have I?' she asked petulantly, 'I was only revealing some home truths, he has the right to know…'

'He will know in time,' Hugh continued, 'but that is a tale for our Lord and Lady to tell. You've forgotten yourself and the oath you swore.'

'Really…'

'Leave Ella,' Hugh interrupted harshly, his gaze brooking no argument. Ella managed to hold it longer than most, before leaping up from the table and pressing the goblet into the castellan's hands with unnecessary force. She then headed straight for where Hamon sat drunkenly challenging all comers to test his wrestling prowess. Sitting on the youth's lap, she wrapped her arms around him, flattering him with her attention. As she blatantly seduced him, she threw one last dirty look in Hugh's direction. The castellan grunted at the challenge, although he remained unmoved. In Hugh's opinion, the boy was old enough to make his own choices, no matter how foolish they may be.

An awkward silence descended. Godric shifted uncomfortably as Hugh glanced at him. He had been avoiding the knight since the brawl in the tiltyard. Fortunately, sensing Godric's growing unease, the castellan turned his gaze towards Salazar, who still lurked in the hall's shadows. Alain's senior squire held Rhyannon in his arms and was kissing her tenderly, who was responding fervently to his touch.

'That boy has a death wish,' Hugh finally said coolly. 'Not surprised. Hot-blooded young nobles need a release. Do you have the same intentions to risk Morwenna's wrath?' Godric flushed, his thoughts briefly flickering to the memory of a raven-haired girl dancing in the dark, who had lately been a persistent feature in his dreams. The young squire looked away from Salazar, shaking his head mutely. Hugh nodded in approval,

'Good, then you'll have to find a different release,' Godric looked up as Hugh seated himself beside him. The castellan sighed,

'You're not alone. True, there's a monster inside of you. It yearns for blood, for a release against the chains that restrain it. But there is a beast in all men, even in me. We are all born with them. Yet, it is how we it that decides what men we are and will shape our fates. I've witnessed the worst that men can do when these monsters are unleashed; the savagery they are capable of. What you did to Salazar doesn't come close to what I have seen men do when the heat of battle or the cruelty of power takes hold.'

'What do I do if I can't control it? Godric mumbled quietly, ‘will I commit the same atrocities?' 

'I don't know,’ Hugh shrugged, ‘only time will tell. Men who give in to their rage, these berserks who willingly let their monstrous natures control them; they become nothing more than outcasts and vagabonds. They are also eventually killed, beaten by cleverer men who can keep their wits in battle. The troll I slew was the same, all fire and rage, but I was able to keep my head. Now I sit here, and troll's bones lay where they fell.'

'But it's still there; I can sense the rage…'

'I know you feel remorse for what you did. I'm glad you do. It'll help you to temper this fury. But don’t ever ignore or fear it. Use it; for your anger is a part of you Godric; it lends you the strength to wield your sword and gives you the power to kill.'

'Kill?' Godric asked uneasily. He hadn't really considered taking a life before.

'Of course,' Hugh continued bluntly, 'you are almost fifteen and it is time to stop indulging your childhood fantasies. The life of a knight is not chivalric but brutal and harsh. You must stop idealising any fool with a horse and sword. Knights are not like the heroes of song; they don't go around in shining armour, slaying monsters and saving maidens. In real life, knights are men like us bastards. Men who are trained to kill, who can take a life with more ease than a priest lies. To be a knight is to accept that you will one day have to kill, whether it is for your liege lord, your friends or for your own life. Learn to control it and you wield it with more power than any other weapon; if you don't then you will never be a man, only a monster.'

'How will I know I can control it?' Godric asked his mentor, 'How will I be able to trust my restraint?'

'The test will come in battle,' Hugh reassured him, 'only then will you know. I did not know I could take a life until your uncle was threatened. Lord Alain and I have only survived this long because his wand and my sword have protected each other. I forsook everything to follow him, as you may do one day for your own friends. You're good. You may even be better than I was at your age.' 

Godric stared at the man as if he'd grown another head,

'Are you drunk?' Godric inquired quizzically. The cuff he received was well worth it.

'Cheeky little bastard,' Hugh snorted uncharacteristically, 'you should respect your betters'. 

Godric laughed, for a jest from Hugh was a rare thing.

'When will this test come?' Godric asked eventually, slowly sobering,

'It can't be far off now, with the world the way it is,' Hugh acknowledged. Avalon's castellan glanced at where Alain sat speaking with the Irish bard, 'Lord Alain has had news. His spies have reported that King Malcolm of the Scots is marshalling his armies. Rufus's ambitions are to destabilise his brother by making war in Normandy and the Scots are hoping to take advantage of his absence, as well as pleasing the English exiles in his court who clamour for revenge against those who disinherited them. The Irishman claims that his Gaelic brethren will invade the north soon and Lord Alain thinks the King will send him there in the hope that the Lord of Avalon's presence will persuade the wizards north of the border of their folly if they choose to get involved. He hopes that swords and wands will not be necessary, so you are to join us.'

Godric's head snapped up to stare at the castellan incredulously,

'What?' he exclaimed in disbelief, excitement overwhelming him.

'You're to join us on campaign,' Hugh confirmed, rolling his eyes at Godric's youthful enthusiasm, 'Hamon and Salazar too, if we can stop the latter from fucking himself into an early grave. It'll be good experience for you, seeing first-hand the rigors of such a life. It’s likely you won't see much fighting and if we do encounter any, you're all to stay out of it. I'll be damned if I see some of the best I've ever trained gutted by a scraggly-haired barbarian with a pointed stick.'

Godric couldn’t believe it. He was joining Lord Alain's retinue on a campaign. Finally, he would experience what life as a knight would entail; leaving Avalon to explore the kingdom. With the coming of spring, when warriors burst from their strongholds to raid the land, Godric would march to war.


	11. The North

Spring 1091

'I hate this fucking place!' Bayard's brooding grumble broke the silence. The big man sniffed, wiping at his reddened, skin cracked nose, 'I really fucking hate it'.

'I'm sure it fucking hates you too, Bayard,' Hadrian retorted calmly. Bayard just grumbled as he scowled at the darkening sky. Grey clouds loomed thunderously over them, unleashing persistent showers of rain which had plagued them since their arrival. Godric, his scarlet cloak drenched, would have smiled if the weather hadn't been so miserable. However, the squire shared some of Bayard’s sentiments about this forsaken place.

Experiencing his first taste of the outside world since coming to Avalon, Godric had been filled with wide-eyed wonder at the start of the campaign. The north was a wild place. A rugged and barren world of heather and moorland, for the north was a harsh and unforgiving place. It was a landscape dominated by dark hills, dissected by meandering river valleys and inhabited by hardy people. Once, the land had been cultivated, but the wilds had reclaimed some of it in recent years. As they followed Alain north, Godric had noticed the distinct lack of villages, although they passed enough skeletal remains of old homesteads long since reduced to barren shells to hint at a once thriving heritage. The locals kept to themselves or actively sought to avoid the presence of armed soldiers. 

Godric had his suspicions that it wasn't just their presence or the nearby war waging to the north that put the locals on edge. Yet, when Godric had inquired further, he had been confronted with a stony silence from Alain's retainers that could not be breached. The three young squires had concluded that it had something to do with the Harrying, the wizarding war which had waged in the north over a score of years before. Godric still knew little of the Harrying, but understood that it had been a brutal year which had ravaged the northern shires. It had also scarred his uncle deeply, although clearly not as deeply as it had marked the northern landscape and its dower inhabitants.

'Fucking place,' Bayard muttered again before sneezing loudly. He received sympathetic glances from many of the company, as he wasn't the only one who had suffered during the campaign. Half of Alain's retinue had similar afflictions, for Gilbert's bowls had kept him up for much of the previous night. Whilst magic had kept the worst of the weather at bay, it could only do so much. They were at war after all.

In early spring, Rufus had received the news that Malcolm Canmore, the opportunist King of the Scots, had invaded the north, an act of aggression that the King was ready for due to Alain's network of spies. Rufus had been quarrelling with his elder brother in Normandy but had immediately rushed back to England when the news had reached him and demanding that his Grand Sorcerer attend him. With the coming of spring, an embittered war of raiding and pillaging descended on the north and Alain was needed to counter any support that the warlocks of Scotland may have offered their own King.

They had taken a portal to the borders of Yorkshire, appearing in a small glade within a heavily wooded river valley which ran beneath a looming rocky scar in the hillside. A local forester in Alain's employ greeted them. He led them to his nearby homestead, where fresh horses and supplies for all of Alain's retinue waited. The woodsman was a cheerful fellow, who had no qualms about helping wizards. He had shaken his head in amusement at Godric's enthusiasm and Hamon's boasts about the upcoming campaign, before passing on what news he had learned of the war through local gossip. His daughter, a cherub-like girl of twelve, had darted about the retinue, passing over bundles of nuts, wild berries and woodland creatures. To Godric's amusement, her eyes had repeatedly glanced at a darkly handsome young man. Salazar, equally amused by her behaviour, winked at the girl, causing her to blush and his companions to chuckle until Salazar received a hard clout about the head by an unimpressed Hugh. They had set off shortly after, following the long roads to the north as Salazar grumbled and cursed Hugh’s name.

However, whilst muggle soldiers fought it out in the hilly countryside, Alain's company had seen no martial action. Instead, they found themselves on a windswept and rain drenched hillside, waiting patiently for the arrival of a delegation of Scottish warlocks to discuss the war unfolding around them. These wizards had been sent by their leader, Cinead of the Hallow-Hills, who sat upon the Great Council alongside Alain. The Lord of Avalon assured his retainers that Cinead had no reason to quarrel with him and would sue for peace, unless the young firebrands in his coterie were poisoning his ear with falsehoods and old hurts. This didn’t reassure the retinue and weapons remained close at hand if the Scots broke the truce. 

From their barren hillside, they could see the great Roman Wall in the far distance. An ancient fortification which had once marked the boundaries between wizards on either side of the border, it now lay crumbled and robbed of its former might. But the enchantments of the Roman mages were slow to die and the magic within the Wall would last for many more lifetimes. When Godric and his companions had investigated the ancient landmark, he could still sense the dormant magic radiating from the stone and had marvelled at the might of Rome.

'Does it do anything other than fucking rain here,' Bayard complained mulishly,

'If it saves us from your stink, Bayard, then we shall all be thankful,' Salazar commented dryly, fed up with the older man's constant grumbling. Bayard glowered at Salazar, but any reply was interrupted by a fierce fit of sneezing. Salazar laughed at him and was going to comment further until he caught Hugh's eye and fell silent at the wordless command.

'How much longer do we have to wait?' moaned Hamon, his patience running out. Godric shared his restlessness. In the eyes of Alain's squires, the absence of any fighting and the combined efforts of the dismal weather with the retinue's determination to test their mettle meant that campaigning had been an exhausting disappointment thus far.

'Patience, Hamon,' Alain responded with a calm smile, 'I doubt we'll have to wait too long.'

'We won't have to wait at all,' interjected Hugh, 'they're here.'

He nodded towards an ancient standing stone a little further down the hillside. Half consumed by a thick fog which clogged the valley floor, many didn’t see what Hugh was indicating. With a faint crack, a group of hooded and cloaked figures popped into existence. They huddled together for a moment before one man pointed out Alain's retinue waiting at the hill's summit and the haggard group began to hurriedly make their way up the stony path. It didn't take long to realise that the recently arrived group were armed. Alain's retainers momentarily tensed, hand's reaching for weapons until Alain held up a hand.

‘Peace, my friends,’ he ordered them clearly, 'there will be no need for that.'

'How can you be sure?'

'They're not here for a fight,' Hugh indicated, 'they've brought youngsters with them.' 

‘That’s a promising start,' Alain chuckled as he watched young boys darting between their elders. As the new arrivals reached the summit, Godric was given the opportunity to assess them. They were a haggard looking group, with their beards hanging loose and covered in leaves and bones. Their robes were garish and distinct blue tattoos marked their weathered skin. They eyed Alain's retinue with both suspicion and curiosity as Alain greeted them courteously. If any of these wild mages noticed the Lord of Avalon’s pronounced limp, they didn't draw attention to it. 

Over an hour passed as they exchanged pleasantries and gossip. Unlike Salazar, who eagerly absorbed every detail of the conversation, Godric soon grew bored. He wasn't the only one and he soon found himself in the company of an amiable young wizard called Edwin. He turned out to be of Saxon descent, whose father had been disinherited following the conquest and had fled to Scotland when the Harrying ravaged their homeland. Edwin had a sunny disposition and shared a friendly conversation with Godric,

'You're Saxon?' he asked, pleased at the surprising news,

'Half,' admitted Godric, 'I have a Saxon father and my mother was Norman.'

'No one's perfect,' Edwin said good-humouredly, 'I'm surprised to find a Saxon in the Lord of Avalon’s retinue.'

'I'm his nephew,' Godric explained, noticing Edwin's brief grimace at the mention of Alain. Obliviously the events of the Harrying still rankled deeply with his family. Before Edwin could reply, his attentions were diverted by the antics of his younger brother, a small boy called Edgar, who was playing an over-excitable game of chase with the other children, leaving Godric to return to the negotiations being discussed.

Eventually, the talks stalled, and Alain generously persuaded the Scottish warlocks to share a meal with him. Godric was glad that he was surrounded by many wizards, although he avoided much of the unappealing cuisine that the Scottish mages dined upon. Even Hamon declined to try it and he was famed for his vast appetite.

As Godric sat and talked more with Edwin, he soon discovered that he had unwittingly gained the attention of a peculiar man who had accompanied the Scottish warlocks. He was short and wiry, with close-cropped dark hair and a jittery, excitable disposition. At first glance, his garments seemed to be expensively tailored, although closer scrutiny revealed how well-worn and frayed the night-blue cloak was along its edges. He greeted Godric with a charming smile as he scurried to meet him.

'Ah, one of the esteemed squires of Avalon we have heard so many rumours about,' the strange man said, beaming, 'I've heard you're the boy who put Bellême on his arse?'

'Urm…' Godric responded, unsure about how to respond to the man's genial, if excitable, demeanour. He eventually nodded reluctantly. The man's laughter boomed out, disturbing those close to them and causing Edwin to roll his eyes. The warlocks glared at their companions, before sharing exasperated looks. If the man noticed, he ignored it and clapped Godric on the shoulder,

'Good,’ he laughed, ‘the brutes a devil. I bet he hasn't forgiven you for that.'

'Aidan, you know what Bellême is like,' Alain interrupted evenly as he ate nearby. He absentmindedly scratched at the leg where Bellême's curse had savaged him, 'he's not a forgiving man'. 

The Scot merely shrugged, his eyes never moving away from a squirming Godric,

'True enough. I was at Rufus's coronation; didn't see it mind, as I’d misplaced my invitation and the royal guards wouldn’t let me into the cathedral. Also missed your little disagreement with Bellême. Shame, a great shame.' Godric didn't think his dealings with Bellême could really be described as a minor disagreement. After all, the infamous knight held a grudge to this day. However, before he could correct the stranger's assertion, the man was talking hurriedly again, 'though he is a powerful wizard from a very wealthy family. I tried to gain an audience with him once. Was going to suggest that he marries my Rowena, but alas, he'd only recently remarried.'

'You'd really sell your daughter to a man like Bellême?' Alain appeared astonished at the man's folly and revulsion dripped from his uncharacteristically unguarded tongue, 'Aidan, surely you have heard about the way he treats his wife?' 

'Needs must,' Aidan defended himself, 'and besides, I'm sure the rumours are as embellished as rumours always are. He is a powerful and wealthy wizard from a proud and pure lineage.'

'Yet, one with evil vices,' Alain answered coolly, 'especially where women are concerned. I'd advise you to look elsewhere, for your daughter's sake'.

'Are you suggesting I look closer to your own hearth, Lord Alain,' Aidan said, his smile widening as he eyed Godric and Salazar keenly, not even bothering to grace Hamon with a glance. Godric was stunned. Was this man offering him a betrothal contract with his daughter? Sat beside Godric, Salazar visibly blanched at the talk of marriage and choked on a mouthful of his meal, paling considerably as he looked at Alain in wild desperation. Godric, although surprised by the man's audacity, remained unconcerned. Surely his uncle would deem them too young to be betrothed, as they were not yet at the age to face the Ritual and they hadn't been blooded in battle. To Godric’s relief, Salazar and Hamon were both older and more likely to be settled with wives long before he was.

'Again, I'd advise you to look elsewhere,' Alain answered firmly, easing his squire’s fears and Salazar sighed in relief. Aidan didn't appear displeased by Alain's firm rebuttal, remaining unabashedly persistent.

'Your squires are of marriageable age, Lord Alain,' the Scot pointed out, 'mine can't be the only offer you'll receive, especially with Lugnasadh looming?’

'You're the first,’ Alain admitted dismissively, ‘there’s more than enough time for talk of marriage in the years to come. I'll let my squires enjoy their youth in peace; after all, we live in a harsh world where young men are forced to grow up quickly.'

'You can't hide them in Avalon forever, especially one related by blood,' Aidan gave Godric an eager look which caused the squire to shift uneasily, 'and my Rowena is a beautiful and very promising witch. A little too strident and wilful maybe, but with a firm hand, she would make a good and obedient wife.'

'She sounds spirited,' Godric suddenly said. Alain shot him a warning look, silently ordering him to hold his tongue and not to encourage Aidan's nonsensical wishful thinking. Aidan shook his head,

‘Every mare has a few blemishes,'

'I didn't mean it as a criticism,' Godric muttered seriously.

'Not at all, not at all,' the Scottish warlock nodded, discarding his previous opinions easily and eager to agree as he sensed an opportunity.

'Aidan,' Alain interjected, drawing the man's attention back to the Lord of Avalon, 'your daughter sounds like a jewel and I'm sure in time all my boys will make worthy husbands. However, it is too early for such talk.'

This time, Alain's tone disparaged all arguments. Again, this didn't seem to bother Aidan. The excitable warlock waved off Alain's discouragement, the ever-present smile still on his lips.

'Another time perhaps,' Aidan suggested before returning to his meal, although he carried on casting thoughtful looks at Godric and Salazar. However, he couldn't stay silent for long.

'I've heard that Gofanon the Wise has been taken ill again?' Alain simply shrugged,

'Even the best amongst us sometimes fall ill.'

'Considering his age,' Aidan continued nonchalantly, 'it is a little more concerning.'

'Hardly,' Alain scoffed and Godric could tell that he was beginning to lose his patience with the irritating warlock, 'he's still a very powerful wizard.'

'I know that,’ Aiden chuckled, ‘there's a reason he's been head of the Council for over forty years. Yet, all great things come to an end eventually.'

'What are you suggesting?' Alain said, bristling and clearly disgruntled.

Aidan paused, as did most of his companions. Alain's voice was sharp, and his eyes flashed with rising anger. The warlocks from Cinead’s delegation cast furious looks at the foolish Aidan for seemingly angering the Lord of Avalon, who for once seemed to recognise his folly.

‘Gofanon is a good friend,’ Aiden spluttered placatingly, ‘and he's famous for being a peacemaker on the Council and his Welsh kin will not falter in their loyalty to him. But he grows old; for years now, he has been a buffer to rival factions, a calming balm on heated quarrels. We fear that if he dies, then it could lead to chaos again...'

'I will not let that happen.' Alain spoke firmly, his eyes unflinching.

'Lord,' one of Aidan’s fierce companions stumbled on before Alain’s displeasure, 'forgive me, for you are a noble wizard. Yet, you are only one man. Most know that you would not throw our world into chaos and bloodshed in a bid for power. But more dishonourable wizards may seek to take advantage…' The man stuttered momentarily before falling silent beneath Alain's withering glare.

'So,' the Lord of Avalon finally concluded slowly, 'you had no intention of aiding Canmore when you summoned me here. This is what you really intended?' 

The Scottish warlocks exchanged nervous glances and shifted uneasily. It was young Edwin who summoned the courage to answer, his head held high in defiance.

'You are mistaken,' the young man said proudly, 'there are those amongst us who are loyal to our King and would have gladly lent their wands to his ambitions. Especially those of Saxon blood whose families were disinherited and forced into exile by Norman butchers…'

'I am the Lord of Avalon,' Alain suddenly snapped, shocking everyone with his fierceness. His steely gaze never left Edwin, 'you would do well to remember who you are speaking to, boy!' 

Edwin remained steadfast and looked ready to remain defiant, until one of his companions placed a placating hand on his shoulder and urged the young man to back down. For a moment, it appeared Edwin would not heed the advice. However, he finally nodded unhappily and offered a stilted apology. Alain accepted it, although Godric knew that his uncle's grim expression hinted at the anger which remained simmering close at hand. Alain's fist was clenching and unclenching repeatedly as if it itched to hold a wand.

'Lord Alain,' Aidan spoke up again, shaking his head at Edwin, 'forgive our young friend. He is young and we all know that the Saxons are a tenacious lot. We only wish to extend an offer to an admired member of the Council.'

Alain still looked angry, but he quickly overcame it. Sighing deeply and running a hand through his greying fair hair, he gestured for Aidan to continue,

'Speak your peace,' he muttered courteously, 'although I already suspect what you are going to tell me.'

'The Seidr,' Aidan began immediately, 'are growing restless. They are eager to recover the power and influence they lost during the Harrying. They continuously raid our lands in the far north. There isn't a wizard amongst us who hasn't lost a loved one, seen our riches pillaged, our homes burned, or our wives and daughters raped by those savages.'

For once, the warlock appeared to be speaking seriously and his companions clearly supported his opinion. They growled their agreement, their hatred obvious.

‘In these very hills, Lord Alain, you once singlehandedly defeated two of the Seidr’s greatest champions and drove their warbands into the far reaches of Britain. There is no one the Seidr fear or loath more than Alain of Avalon. An alliance between us may stall their bloodthirsty motives and your presence may dissuade further raids entirely.' 

Godric stared at his uncle. He had long suspected that Alain had a darker past. A wizard certainly needed one to survive in the fractured world of magical politics. But to hear of Alain’s infamous reputation from others, a reputation built on fear, hatred and violence, was unnerving and contradictory to the image of the softly spoken and fair man who had introduced Godric to the magical world.

It took Alain a long time to decide on a reply.

'No,' he said cordially, 'I will not intervene.'

'Lord,' many voices cried out, but Alain stilled them with a raised hand,

'Friends, please, let me speak my piece,' Alain directed his gaze to Aiden, 'I am no fool. I'm aware of the squabbles and feuds which are fought in the far north. I know that your warlocks raid Seidr land with as much frequency as they do yours. Do you forget that I am the Grand Sorcerer to the King of England, not the King of the Scots. I don't deny that I share a violent history with the Seidr. Anyone who survived the Harrying knows it. But I will not lead my retinue to war because of your feuds. If you require aid, then you must call on the Wizengamot.'

The Scottish warlocks tried to argue further, claiming that the Lord of Avalon's intervention was crucial. However, Alain remained steadfast and refused to budge from his position. Soon realising that their efforts to persuade Alain were in vain, the Scots stopped trying to persuade him, although it took Aidan far longer to come to term with this.

Once the warlocks realised the futility of their pleas, it didn't take long to conclude the meeting. Now that their real intentions had been discovered, the Scots didn't linger on the rain-drenched and windswept hillside. The heavily cloaked company of Scottish wizards soon left for their homes. However, before they left, Alain had managed to courteously extract a promise that they wouldn't join King Malcolm's efforts to destabilise Rufus's kingdom across the northern shires. Yet, Godric suspected that the young, hot-blooded men like Edwin, would soon be found amidst the ranks of their King's armies. One look at Alain told him that his uncle thought the same, but there was little Alain could do except counsel Rufus to be careful. Aidan was the last to leave, lingering long enough to say farewell to each member of Alain's retinue. His farewell to Godric and Salazar was especially prolonged, the possibility of securing a betrothal for his daughter, especially one with lucrative connections to the infamous riches of Avalon, was too tantalising for the warlock to ignore. But at last, even Aiden was persuaded to depart with his companions to the ancient standing stones. When the Scots had finally disappeared into the fog and vanished with a clamour, Godric turned to address his uncle,

'He was a strange man,' Godric commented lightly,

'He's a fool,' Salazar said rudely,

‘I’d have to agree with Salazar,' Alain said tiredly, 'many call him Scatter-Brain and his foolishness is well known in magical circles. He's friendly and good-humoured enough, but   
also a fool of the most damning kind.'

'He seemed to like these two,' interjected Hamon, unable to resist smirking at his friends. He didn't seem at all bothered by Aidan's lack of interest in him, a mere Muggle, but rather amused with the warlock’s bizarre antics.

'He would,' Alain acknowledged, 'they are apprenticed to the Lord of Avalon. Aidan has always been enamoured with the allure of prestige. He married into an ancient and very wealthy family. However, when his wife died young, he soon squandered his wealth on foolish ventures. He may dress in fine clothes, but magic can only go so far in masking his impoverishment and certainly can't forge real gold. I’m afraid he’s obsessed with reclaiming the riches he lost.'

'He can look elsewhere,' Salazar shuddered, ‘I’m not marrying his daughter.’

'Poor man,' Godric commented, then thought of the man's unfortunate daughter, 'and poor girl'.

'Mm,' Alain sighed sadly, ‘she's a poor girl indeed to be lumbered with such a father; a man who measures her worth as nothing more than a bargaining piece and a means to reclaim his lost wealth. I fear she will suffer an unfulfilled life.'

With the talks were concluded, Alain saw little reason to linger in the north. He sent a messenger hawk to the King, informing the monarch that his mission had been successful and warning him that some of the younger firebrands may march against him. However, the King had enough wizards in his army to deal with them, so Alain would return to Avalon. Rufus didn't try to dissuade him. Already his forces were gaining the upper hand and he was already turning his ambitions across the sea to his brother's duchy.

The return to Avalon took days and was greeted with much pleasure by most of Alain's retinue. Even Alain's mood seemed to lighten the further south they journeyed. The North was a stark and hostile place and Godric knew that its untamed barrenness had been an unwanted reminder of Alain's days fighting in the Harrying. The Lord of Avalon had not been fond of returning there, the scene of his most infamous deeds.

However, Godric alone appeared to regret leaving the northern wilderness. He was oddly charmed by its rugged, untamed beauty. For three years he had been cooped up in Avalon and he longed to see more of the world. Worst of all, he couldn't deny the sense of bitter disappointment that threatened to overwhelm him. His first campaign had passed without a single battle in which to test his mettle like Hugh had promised. Whilst the usual cheerfulness of the retinue's fellowship slowly seeped back with every mile that took them away from the dreadful weather, Godric remained quiet and sullen.

They returned swiftly on magically enhanced horses, heading towards the same valley where they had arrived and aiming for the lonely homestead in the woods where the woodsman and his young daughter guarded the portkey in secrecy. As they entered the sleepy valley after days of travelling, they followed the small path which ran alongside the meandering river as it slipped past a tall scar cloaked in trees. Bright bluebells sprung from the bushes and thickets, granting the surrounding landscape an otherworldly aura.

Of all Alain's retainers, it was Hadrian, the kindest and most generous of all the soldiers under the Lord of Avalon’s command, who decided to confront Godric about his recent gloom. It was rumoured that he came from the lands surrounding Constantinople, although his past and how he had come to England was shrouded in mystery. Only Bayard knew the full extent of it, for they had spent years fighting beside each other as mercenaries. Godric had always been astounded at how such a mild-mannered man could earn his keep as a soldier.

A small cough alerted Godric to Hadrian's presence and the squire turned to find the eastern wizard riding beside him with an amused smile,

'Don’t be so eager to leap into battle,' the easterner said in his stilted French. Godric had the decency to look sheepish.

'I have dreamt of little else since I was a child!'

'It’s not that long since you were one,' Hadrian chastised him gently, 'the young will always seek to enter a battle recklessly. It is why so many of them die.'

'Not if they're skilled enough with a blade,' Godric countered, remembering tales of heroic deeds and famous warrior fellowships, 'or have comrades who will stand at their shoulder until the last,'

'That is true,' Hadrian chuckled as he recognised Godric's use of one of Bayard's favoured lessons, 'and you're a born warrior, we all know that. However, luck is just as important. Any man can die in battle if their luck runs out,'

'Luck?' Godric scoffed disbelievingly, 'I'd rather put my trust in my own skills.'

'So would many others,' Hadrian advised, 'but a soldier will not reach their dotage if they're unlucky. Men like Bayard and me are old to war, are haunted by the near misses. The arrows which fell inches from our faces; the spells which exploded nearby, or the blades failed to pierce our flesh. If it hadn't been for luck, our lives could have been snatched away in an instant, regardless of our skill.' 

Godric was surprised to discover that Hadrian was so old to war and he wandered how long the man had marched beside Bayard.

'Those of us who have served Lord Alain longest are glad this folly didn't come to war. We do not actively seek battle, or pursue the risky dance with death that all soldiers engage in, although lunatics like Bayard may. Do you think we dreamt of becoming soldiers? In my youth, I dreamt of being a sailor and exploring the great sea of my homeland. Isolde once wished to become a healer; Tancred a smith, whilst Gilbert and Gervais would have bred horses. Only dogs like Bayard dream of becoming soldiers…’

Bayard overheard his friend and howled like a hound, prompting laughter from his comrade.

‘See,’ Hadrian confirmed with a wide smile, ‘we dream of hanging up our swords, or turning our wands to gentler uses.'

'Then why don't you?' Godric challenged, intrigued by Hadrian. He had assumed that most of Alain's retainers lived for the rush of battle, or were born fighters like Hugh and Bayard. To hear otherwise was almost sacrilege to his youthful beliefs.

'Because we love Alain,' Hadrian admitted honestly, as if it was obvious, 'when each of us had nothing, he found us and gave our lives a greater purpose. In return, we swore to protect him and when he marches to war, then so do we. There isn't one amongst us who wouldn't die for Lord Alain. One day, you will feel the same.'

'Then what will you do,' said Godric curiously, 'when Lord Alain hangs up his wand?'

The smile on Hadrian’s face widened, although he shrugged unknowingly.

'I haven't given it much thought. Grow old in Avalon and find a good woman to share my bed. I may even return east to my homeland. I long to see the land of my birth again, to stand beneath the almond trees and watch the burning sun dancing on the Aegean.' 

Hadrian's voice drifted off and he smiled wistfully as he looked up at the sky. Godric returned it as he visualised the exotic land Hadrian talked about. Who could deny feeling the desire to return to the place of their birth; to survive the hardships of life so that they could enjoy their remaining years in peace, surrounded by friends and loved ones as their life neared its inevitable end.

Godric gazed fondly at those around him. Salazar was laughing at a story Hamon was weaving and Bayard was busy promising an amused Isolde that he'd one day escape the awful British weather and retire to a brothel to enjoy the delights of wine and whores in the glaring sun of warmer lands. Even Hugh seemed to be unable to resist the comradery that flourished around him, judging by the contented smile on his face. Finally, Godric looked at Alain, who rode at the retinue's head. The Lord of Avalon smiled warmly as he eavesdropped on Godric's conversation, pleased to be returning home to an adoring wife in the company of loyal friends. Hadrian's wish was a romantic ideal, but one that fuelled the imaginations of all those who were listening.

From a nearby thicket, a crow squawked out a croaking cry, springing madly into flight in a flutter of feathers.

No one saw the arrow fly until it struck.


	12. A Place of Slaughter

Godric had been told that time slows for those in peril. This was a mistake, for the fight began instantly. One moment, Hadrian was there, sitting astride his mount and smiling up at the sky as he reminisced about days gone by and basked in the fellowship of his comrades.

Then he was gone.

Godric felt the blood splatter across his face. He barely heard the cries of alarm rising around him. All he saw was Hadrian being thrown from his horse, the feathered shaft of an arrow lodged deep in the torn and bloody flesh which had once been his throat. Hadrian twitched, his hands clawing at the shaft protruding from his neck and blood spat from his mouth with each rasping breath, hissing through clenched teeth as his face contorted with agony. All Godric could do was stare, crippled with shock at the grisly sight.

War cries rang out and out of the trees leapt a wave of armed men, bursting from the trees and shattering the valley's tranquillity to charge towards the Lord of Avalon's retinue, weapons in their hands. Godric heard Hugh's voice roaring orders; the hiss of swords being unsheathed and the rustle of robes as wands were drawn. Yet still he remained motionless, staring at Hadrian as the stricken man thrashed and struggled beneath him.

Alain was struck in the same moment Hadrian was hit. A barbed arrow had embedded itself into his shoulder, breaching his mail shirt and pinning his heavy grey cloak to his torso, hindering his sword arm. He grunted in pain but was already drawing his wand. He swatted away a second arrow, but could do nothing to stop two more from thudding into his horse. The beast screamed and staggered before a flaming red spell struck its side. The horse collapsed beneath him, scattering mud and blood as it collapsed with its legs flailing wildly. Alain flung himself from the saddle as he fell and rolled away before his dying mount could crush him. Leaping to his feet, wand in his hand and the arrow still fixed in his shoulder, he turned to face the oncoming enemy,

'Avalon!'

The raised cry and his uncle's plight jolted Godric from his stupor, looking frantically at the chaos about him. He saw Bayard roar with rage and charge into the small ford to meet the rush of armed men who leapt at the retinue from all directions, cutting off any chance of escape. Isolde, the healer of the company, had leapt from her saddle and rushed to Hadrian's side. She blocked a falling arrow which would have skewed her stricken comrade, then sent a spell hurtling back with devastating accuracy, shattering a charging warrior's knee and sending him crashing down with a cry of agony. Then she was crouching beside Hadrian, urgently muttering spells to stem the gushing blood as Hadrian choked and arrows and spells pounded the shield she had cast around them. Gilbert and Gervais had spurred their horses forward and now protected the witch, their shields held high and lances levelled threateningly whilst Tancred dashed to join the growing chaos in the ford where a roaring Bayard was fighting with the ferocity of an enraged boar.

Godric didn't know how his young friends were fairing. He had last seen them together, laughing at a light-hearted jest. Godric longed to have a sword, but no blade rested at his hip, for no squire was entitled to wear such a mark of knighthood. He finally caught sight of his friends. Salazar had drawn his wand whilst Hamon carried a large spear which his father had thrown to him at the first signs of an ambush. Godric fumbled for his wand before finally succeeding in releasing from his robes.

Too late. Spells and arrows were filling the air like swarming flies. A purple spell exploded in front of Godric, erupting in a shower of sparks and mud. Godric's horse reared back, crying out in fear before bolting, throwing its rider as it began to gallop away. Unhorsed, Godric's breath was torn from his body as he landed heavily, although he managed to avoid the bone-breaking kicks of his panicked mount. Reacting with sheer force of will, Godric lumbered to his feet and gaped at the chaos.

A cry rang out close by and he saw a mounted warrior bearing down on him. Godric couldn't move. He stood paralysed, staring up at the raised sword which was ready to hack down and split Godric's skull. However, just as his instincts roared into life at the sign of impending danger and his wand rose to respond to the threat, the warrior was intercepted by Hugh. The castellan, his longsword drawn, had already sent one opponent reeling with a half-severed hand and now urged his horse forward to block the warrior's path. He deflected the sword-blow on his shield, then responded with his own blade as they engaged in a vicious contest.

'Move,' Hugh had time to bark and just like in Avalon's tiltyard, Godric's ruthlessly drilled mind obeyed. He scurried away from the two mounted opponents, dodging spell-fire and whistling arrows, his eyes darting about the battleground in search of his friends.

Godric released a sigh of relief when he spotted them again. Salazar and Hamon were still alive, both engaged in a furious fight for their survival. Just as Hugh had trained them to do, the pair fought as a team. Hamon was using his spear to furiously keep one man at bay, whilst Salazar was flourishing his wand to shield them from missiles. Realising that they were currently holding their own, Godric began to head towards his unhorsed uncle. Salazar was wickedly fast with a wand and Hamon was as strong as an ox; they didn't need Godric's aid.

Despite the arrow which still protruded from his shoulder and the heavy cloak that hindered his sword-arm, Alain was still defiant. His wand was a blur, locked in a vicious duel with one wizard whilst the man's Muggle companion charged forwards, a shield raised high and a sword already swinging in a wide arc to hack Alain down. 

But the Lord of Avalon was equal to them both. With a wave of his wand, the sword which should have delivered a killing blow was suddenly turned into a fragile flower which exploded as it struck Alain's hauberk. The shower of petals was dashed with blood before they could finish their descent and the armed Muggle was dead before he could recover from his astonishment. Alain had blocked an incoming spell, whipped back around to face the Muggle and cast a blasting hex at close quarters. His opponent raised his large rounded shield hopelessly, but wood and iron were no match for Alain's fury. The spell punctured through both shield and man, sending the Muggle catapulting away in an explosion of blood and entrails. Alain's attention was already on the wizard before the Muggle's body landed in a motionless heap. Seeing the Lord of Avalon marching towards him with his wand crackling menacingly, the wizard cried out for support.

As more men rushed forward to engage Alain, Godric charged over to help his uncle when a spell exploded at his feet. Coming to an abrupt stop as his feet danced to avoid burning cinders, Godric twisted around to see a man striding through the trees, his predatory eyes fixed on the squire. A rugged blue-cloak fluttered around his tattered robes, whilst metal rings and human bones hung from strands of filthy hair in a matted beard. Godric recognised all this in the heartbeat before the wizard raised an outlandish staff and sent a second spell scything towards him. Godric ducked quickly as the spell flew harmlessly over him and collided with a nearby tree, severing a branch instantly. A cutting curse, the squire thought in surprise, and one which would have decapitated him if he hadn't reacted in time.

His rage began to stir.

His opponent conjured a flaming whip and swung it at Godric, the flames hissing threateningly. Godric rolled aside as the whip flashed by, charring his robes. The fiery weapon reared up and the wizard brought it down again with a murderous intent.

Godric reacted instinctively. He hastily waved his wand at the fallen branch and transfigured it into a large round shield. He managed to raise it just in time as the whip crashed down upon it and exploded in a shower of flames. Miraculously, Godric remained unhurt before a barrage of spells pounded his defences. The shield quivered as two spells collided with it and Godric was forced to step back. He only had a moment to recover before another spell hammered into the shield and the timber splintered, the intense heat of it scorching Godric's cheek. He glanced at his opponent through the shattered frame and saw him smiling smugly at Godric's helplessness.

The stirring rage burned brighter.

The wizard levelled his staff again. But the smile vanished as Godric suddenly charged forwards. Momentarily perplexed, the wizard paused before letting his next curse fly. With his vision impaired by the remnants of his failing shield and having no time to cast a spell, Godric tried to dodge when his feet slipped on mud-splattered leaves. The accident saved his life. Landing heavily as the spell soared harmlessly overhead, Godric cried out and cast a spell desperately.

His shield catapulted away from him, banished from Godric's hold. It twirled through the air before the shield's rim collided with his looming opponents face. The man's curse died on his lips as his nose crumpled under the force of the blow. He staggered back, momentarily blinded with agony and cursing as he stumbled away from the fight, his pain rendering him useless.

Godric didn't press his advantage. He remained stricken on the ground, wide-eyed and unable to believe that he was still alive. He didn't even realise he was smiling, the exhilaration still coursing through his veins. Then he was moving again, scrambling to his feet to avoid being hit by any of the stray missiles which still flew amongst them. Above the deafening clash of fighters rose Bayard's voice, who was cursing vehemently with every mighty blow he struck with his flailing sword.

Godric turned back to Alain. The Lord of Avalon was duelling another pair of wizards, having forced his last opponent to hastily retreat. Both were wizards, their spells hissing past as they sought to breach Alain's steadfast defences. Alain fought back with equal vigour, his attention solely fixed on defeating them. Godric marvelled at the sight and how such a genial man could turn into a god of war. This was not Alain the teacher or Alain the law-giver. This was Alain the warrior, the wizard who had duelled and defeated two of the Seidr's greatest mages. Even when wounded, an aura of command radiated from him, his limp unnoticeable as he fought in a fierce magical contest.

Yet, Alain wasn't a god; he was merely a man and he didn't notice a third opponent emerging from the trees. But Godric did. A darkly cloaked figure slipped out from the wooded foliage and strode towards Alain, murderous intent blazing from his eyes. A gnarled staff, carved with glistening runes and as long as an outstretched arm, illuminated the hand that clutched it. The staff rose slowly, the man's lips moving as he began to cast his incantation and the tip of the staff burned blue as the spell manifested at its castor’s call. It was levelled at Alain's unprotected back.

Suddenly the battle-calm descended. Finally, time seemed to slow for Godric and the man who was about to attack his uncle seemed to take an age to cast his curse. Within a heartbeat, Godric felt the chains restraining his rage burst. This time, he didn't hesitate.

Godric sprinted forwards and roared out a warning. Alain turned, his eyes widening at the sight of his impending doom. But Godric had already raised his wand and his arm reacted to its masters need without waiting for him to cast a spell. All Godric could do was channel the tempest raging inside him and give it a release. In a brilliant flash of light and a thundering explosion of sound, his wand sang as it sent a powerful surge of magic flaring forwards.

The cloaked figure whirled around to face the unlooked-for challenge. His face, which had been contorted with hatred as he prepared to cut down the unwitting Lord of Avalon, suddenly blanched in horror. For the briefest of heartbeats, the figures widened eyes met his assailant's blazing emerald gaze and Godric recognised only one emotion prevailing over all others; fear.

Godric's surge of magic struck the man with the force of a stampeding bull. The wizard seemed to hang in the air as he was flung from his feet, trapped in place by the wave of crackling power breaking over him. Then he was spinning backwards, flying with unstoppable speed, his staff still clutched uselessly in his flailing hand. He came to an abrupt and bone-breaking stop as he thudded into a tree.

A chilling snap echoed through the woods, accompanied by a high-pitched screech. Godric's magic momentarily held the thrashing wizard against the shuddering tree, leaves and twigs showering down from trembling branches above him. Only when the wave of magic waned did the wizard finally collapse to lie in a broken heap amidst a tangle of roots. He twitched pitifully, then fell still, one last shattered breath escaping from his torn lips.

Godric was stunned and he fought against the urge to fall to his knees as exhaustion seeped through him, draining him of energy. His gaze was transfixed on the wizard who now lay broken and motionless. What had he done?

Godric's magic had exploded across the battleground, the sound of it drowning out the clamour of fighting men. The battle fell still as the fighters looked for the cause of the explosion. Then the enemy were breaking, fleeing as swiftly as they could and dragging their wounded companions with them as if the fall of the cloaked figure had robbed them of their courage.

Hugh was the last man to disengage from the enemy. His second opponent was already dead. He had misjudged Hugh's skill and a clever feint had allowed Avalon's castellan to pounce, impaling the man with his sword. Such was the strength of his thrust that the great blade was buried so deep that it lodged in the man's ribs and could not be tugged free. Cursing, Hugh twisted his horse about as a loud roar alerted him to the arrival of an oncoming opponent. He abandoned the sword and raised his shield as an axe hammered into it, jarring his arm. Discarding the shield, Hugh threw himself at his enemy. His mailed fist hammered into the man, then he danced aside as his opponent raised his axe for another attack. As the axe swung past, Hugh grasped at the shaft and flung the axe upwards, tearing the weapon away from both fighters. The disarmed man flailed pitifully for his axe, but Hugh was taller and his reach greater. He plucked the falling weapon from the air, before using its momentum to swing it around in a huge arc and burying the axe-head into his opponent's skull with such ferocity that it split the unfortunate warrior from crown to jaw. The man grunted as his helmeted head crumpled, bones and blood splattering the air. The corpse slipped silently from his horse, his soul fleeing before the corpse had reached the ground.

He was the last man to die.

As the sound of fleeing men faded, the place of slaughter finally fell silent. Half a dozen bodies were strewn across the woodland path and one floated face down in the ford, butchered by Bayard's enraged onslaught. Alain had killed another whilst two met their ends at Hugh's formidable hands.

The last corpse was the man Godric had faced. The squire still knelt unmoving as he stared blankly at the corpse, unable to comprehend what he had done. The exhilarated smile he had worn during the skirmish was now gone. He had killed a man. Unnervingly, his wand remained warm in his hand, almost humming as it glowed with fulfilment at the display of raw magical power Godric had unleashed.

It took him a moment to realise that Alain was standing in front of him, the arrow almost comically still lodged in his shoulder. Startled, Godric blinked, then dazedly met his uncle's gaze, mildly surprised at Alain's sudden proximity. The Lord of Avalon stared at him emotionlessly before he wrapped Godric in a tight embrace.

When Alain pulled away, he kept Godric at arms-length and examined him closely.

'You saved my life,' Alain acknowledged proudly. Having dismounted from his warhorse and in a rare sign of familial affection, Hugh had instantly checked on his son's welfare. Satisfied that Hamon still lived, he immediately retrieved his discarded sword, having to use both hands to prise the blade free. Then he approached the corpse of the cloaked figure, rolling it over so that he could look upon the horrifying mask of the man’s face.

'He's dead,' Avalon's castellan confirmed. He nudged the corpse with his foot, 'backs broken'. 

Hugh looked at Godric with a flicker of pride, but Godric felt empty and unable to muster a response. He couldn't even look at his uncle, who continued to watch him with growing concern. The squire couldn't bare the pride which shone in his uncle’s eyes and which Alain was unable to hide. He may have saved his uncle's life, but at the cost of another man's death.

'LORD ALAIN!' 

Isolde's cry startled everyone. She was still kneeling by Hadrian's side, tears streaming down her face. She had tried every healing spell in her repertoire, but none could heal the pulsing wound in Hadrian's throat, nor had she tried to remove the arrow for fear that her comrade's life would bleed away more swiftly. She looked up desperately as Alain skidded to halt beside them, Hugh and Godric close behind. All of Alain's retainers clustered around their fallen friend, tears falling freely as they were rendered helpless by his plight. Hadrian was weakening, the burden of struggling to live now taking its toll on his fleeting strength and will to live.

'Hadrian,' Alain said quietly, taking Hadrian's hand in his. Hadrian blinked as he looked at the Lord of Avalon, managing to clasp Alain's hand with what little strength he could muster. He mouthed something, but his voice was lost and he gurgled feebly, causing a small trickle of blood to escape his stained lips. The Lord of Avalon didn't even attempt to save him. He was old to war and recognised that all had already been done to save his friend, even with magic to aid their efforts. Godric watched on with the forlorn fellowship as Alain bent his head and pressed a kiss against Hadrian's temple, before whispering something in the man's ear that the squire could not hear. Hadrian's eyes glanced past Alain, staring up at the wooded canopy and the sky beyond it. 

Then one last, soft breath escaped his lips and his body shuddered. The retainer’s eyes began to cloud as his soul departed, until he finally gazed blankly and unseeing towards the heavens where not long ago he had been staring wistfully at the promise of the future.

Hadrian was dead, his life having ebbed away. Whilst Bayard howled in grief at the death of his old friend and their surviving comrades wept openly at the loss, no emotion stirred in Godric's breast as he stared at the fallen warrior. For the first time in his life, he had lost a comrade and a man had died by his hand. At fifteen, Godric of Avalon had discovered that he was a killer.


	13. Home Truths

Most of Alain's retainers carried wounds. Only Hugh and Godric had escaped injury during the skirmish, although even they were battered and bruised by the experience. Everyone was exhausted, the adrenaline of combat having long since faded. Yet, they remained on edge, eyes constantly scanning their surroundings for signs of another attack.

Hadrian's body was wrapped in cloaks and placed across a packhorse. He would be returned to Avalon and buried on the sacred isle, to lie for eternity in the esteemed company of other warriors who had fallen in service to the Lord of Avalon. Alain's shoulder was hastily tended to by a weeping Isolde. Luck had been on the Lord of Avalon's side, for the arrow had only pricked his flesh, his mail hauberk having robbed it of its strength and the barbed point had not been poisoned. The arrow which had taken Hadrian had been and it was this poison which had made Isolde's desperate healing spells so ineffective. The arrowhead had been dipped in an evil concoction, one only a wizard could have brewed.

Salazar embraced Godric, his relief evident. He even looked elated, although when he winced Godric soon realised that Salazar was holding his arm gingerly as if the limb was broken. Before he could ask further, Hamon had reached them and immediately wrapped them both in a huge bear-hug. It lacked its usual strength. The skirmish had robbed Hamon of his natural energy, although he was tenderly rubbing his right shoulder, which was scorched and burned. His face was waxy, having never experienced bloodshed before and the sight of Hadrian lying in a pool of his own blood had caused Hamon to vomit in a nearby bush. No one thought any less of him for it. Salazar had experienced his own harrowing horrors before and was able to resist the nauseating urge to dispel the contents of his stomach. Godric felt nothing. For years, he had dreamed of receiving praise from his uncle's retinue, but as they discovered the extent of his deeds and showered him with proud praise, he remained mute.

'Thank Merlin you're alive,' Salazar said. Their pale faces were still streaked with tears shed for their fallen comrade and they appeared utterly dishevelled, their cloaks torn and splattered with mud. Despite this, both boys were beaming, elated to have survived their first experience of battle. Godric didn't smile and he returned their embraces half-heartedly. Before he could reply, they heard Alain summon Godric to him,

'What's that about?' asked Salazar, frowning lightly,

'I killed someone,' Godric murmured emotionlessly before striding away without another word.

'W-what?' Hamon stuttered dumbly. Salazar remained silent, staring at Godric's retreating back as his expression showed shock and concern. Whilst they had inflicted wounds on their opponents, they hadn't taken a life.

Alain was standing beside the corpse of the man Godric had killed when his nephew reached him. Hugh was with him and both men were examining the corpse closely. Godric couldn't resist glancing at the crumpled and broken body, before forcibly looking away. No emotion stirred within him as Alain and Hugh exchanged a meaningful look.

'He deserves to know,' Hugh replied simply, shrugging off his friend's hesitation. Alain was holding the wizard's staff and Godric watched his uncle inspect the magical object with a keen eye, his fingers delicately tracing the swirling runes etched into the knotted wood.

‘Seidr,' Alain finally said, gesturing at the corpse. That much was obvious. Only the Seidr still abided by the ancient traditions of the Old North by practising magic using staffs instead of wands. However, even amongst these bloodthirsty practitioners of magic, it was a dying custom.

'Lord,' Hugh said and pointed towards the man's face. Godric glanced at the corpse, trying to avoid the man's wide eyes. The horrified fear the man had felt in the moment of his death would remain fixed in his clouded gaze for eternity. Following Hugh's direction, Godric noticed a symbol depicting a fierce bird of prey tattooed on the man’s cheek, with wings outspread and talons ready to strike.

'The White Falcon,' he heard Alain whisper before sharing another grim look with Hugh. The castellan held out his hand, where in his palm rested a small ring. It was covered in runes, but what drew the eye was the falcon emblazoned upon it, fixed in the same pose as the tattoo. Alain took the engraved offering and stared at it stonily, tracing the falcon which had been carved from narwhal tusk long ago. He glanced at Godric, then slipped the ring into the string pouch at his belt. He passed the staff to Hugh, who snapped it across his armoured thigh and tossed the remnants into the bushes.

‘At least we know who we’re dealing with,' Alain stated quietly, staring into the woods where their attackers had disappeared. The meaning behind the White Falcon symbol was lost on Godric and his uncle's concern was soon forgotten as the retinue hastily tended their wounds and finally abandoned the place of slaughter. Even the ring's existence slipped from his mind, for Godric was now a killer and it haunted him.

The bodies of their attackers were left to rot where they fell.

When they finally reached the kindly forester's homestead, they found nothing more than a ransacked, smoking ruin and no sign of their Portkey. Alain's fears were soon proved right, for a brief search of the nearby area soon explained the absence of the forester and his young daughter. After all, the Seidr were well-known for their excessive ruthlessness. The woodsman had been brutally killed, his eyes gouged out and his tongue removed. The Seidr hadn't stopped there, for his head had been viciously hacked off and stuck on a spear, whilst what remained of his body showed signs of excruciating torture.

Discarded beside the mutilated corpse was the man’s daughter, who had suffered an even more harrowing fate. Rape is a terrible thing and no woman should have to suffer it, especially not a girl barely older than thirteen. The cherub-like girl had suffered cruelly at the hands of the Seidr, before her throat had been slit. They had been feasted upon by marauding animals and flies now swarmed around them.

The harrowing scene revolted Godric and proved too much, causing him to vomit violently. Images assaulted his mind; Hadrian's last rasping breath as he struggled against encroaching death; the little girl's clouded eyes staring blankly up, devoid of life. Most prominent of all was the fear which had shone from the eyes of the Seidr wizard whose life had been cut short by Godric's magic. He couldn't bare it anymore and he continued vomiting until there was nothing left to vent. When the retching finally subsided, Godric took shuddering breaths and wiped away long threads of saliva which hung from his mouth. Then he silently returned to where the remains of the murdered forester and his young daughter were respectively gathered. Alain had removed the forester's head from the spear and transfigured the weapon into a shovel. He then began digging a grave and was shortly joined by Godric and the rest of his retinue. No one spoke. For innocents to have been killed so cruelly weighed heavily on all their minds and even the most hardened veterans amongst them struggled to digest the ill way they had been treated by the Seidr.

After the bodies were buried with dignity, Alain had insisted on leaving the valley swiftly. Warded traps left by the Seidr had been discovered around the homestead in a last desperate attempt to kill the Lord of Avalon if their attack failed. But Alain had fought a long and bloody war against the Seidr and he knew their tricks. He made short work of dispelling the malicious wards charmed around the mutilated bodies, as he was too honourable to leave them unburied, especially when their connection to him had brought about their grisly fate. Those placed on the homestead were left untouched, although Alain added a charm which he cautioned would dissuade unwitting travellers from investigating further. Then they departed the valley, slowed by their lack of horses and exhaustion as they began the long trek to Avalon.

It took the retinue many days to reach the security of Avalon. Alain had led them on a meandering route through hilly valleys and over dark moors towards Nottingham, where the booming spring market town offered an opportunity to purchase enough horses to replace those lost during the skirmish. They approached from the north, travelling stealthily through the large forest of Sherwood, which afforded them shelter from prying eyes. Sherwood didn't ease the retinue's trepidation and they remained tense and alert throughout the journey, for the woods of Sherwood were a notorious haven for outlaws and evil folk. Who knew how many criminals lurked amongst the trees, desperate enough to chance their luck by attacking the King's Grand Sorcerer. However, their fears proved unwarranted and they left the forest unscathed.

Alain didn’t wish to take any more risks with their lives. He had already decided to ignore the route south through the Welsh Marches. Great swathes of those borderlands were controlled by the kinsmen of Robert of Bellême. The Lord of Avalon was no closer to figuring out who would plot to organise the attack, but he had his suspicions and Bellême was high on that list. Bellême may be the kind of man to confront an enemy directly, but Alain didn't doubt that Bellême would be unable to resist the temptation to attack Alain if they happened to cross his path.

They made quicker progress after replenishing their supplies in Nottingham. Godric had remained subdued for most of the journey and slept little at night, for the faceless spectre had returned to haunt his nightmares. Having experienced the chaotic brutality of a battle, Godric felt foolish for his naive childhood dreams. A battle wasn't glorious; the clamour of it was deafening, the fear paralysing and the violence harrowing. Hadrian had been proven right. Skill in arms counted for little if luck was against you. For the last few years, Godric had been told he had the skill and potential to be a great warrior. Yet, during the skirmish, it was a mistimed slip which had saved his life. Moreover, if the arrow's course had been slightly different, then it would have hit Godric. He shuddered at the stark realisation that he could have died in the mud without ever striking a blow against the enemy.

It was a sombre and exhausted band who finally reached Avalon's gates. As they trudged into the bailey, the household burst from the keep, Morwenna in the lead. The welcoming smiles of their friends and loved ones were a balm on their wounded hearts. Godric ignored it all. He slunk away to the stables as quietly as he could, cleverly avoiding Morwenna's motherly attention as she attempted to nurse their injuries. He knew that Alain had noticed his abrupt departure, but Godric shied away from a confrontation. He needed to be alone.

Many tears were shed that night when news of Hadrian's death was delivered to Avalon's household, for his friendly nature would be sorely missed. His cloaked body was taken to Belin's small chapel, where Morwenna and her handmaidens washed and prepared his body for burial. Godric hadn't even known Hadrian had been one of the few wizards who worshipped the Christian deity and he was consumed by a wave of remorse and guilt for being ignorant of Hadrian's beliefs. There was no feast that night, as the household, led by Alain and Bayard, held a silent and respectful vigil over Hadrian's body.

Godric did his best to avoid it. He knew he should join the vigil, but all he wanted was to be alone and had mutely rebuffed all Morwenna's efforts to greet him. Her hurt and confused expression as he stalked away only served to fuel his rising guilt. Neither Salazar nor Hamon approached him, knowing him well enough to gauge that their friend needed privacy. Instead, Godric had raided Lambert's cellars in pursuit of a costrel of uisce beatha. He welcomed the burning sensation, before leaving the keep and making his way to the towering gatehouse, where he nestled against the ramparts of the tallest tower in the refreshing marsh air, intent on driving away the thoughts that haunted him.  
It was Alain who ventured into the night to find his nephew. Heaving bandaged and bruised body up the steps to the towers timber platform, Alain sighed at Godric's unfocused gaze, instantly recognising that his nephew was drunk. He silently clambered over to Godric and settled down beside him. 

'Morwenna will be very displeased,' he chastised Godric, then surprised him by chuckling half-heartedly, 'when she discovers that you have single-handedly tried to empty our stores of that devilish concoction.'

'I'm sorry, Lord,' Godric slurred. He tried to stand, but when the world began to spin, he was forced to fall back down. Fortunately, his uncle conjured feathered cushions in time to catch Godric's body before he crashed unceremoniously to the floor. Godric groaned and put his head in his hands.

'You'll regret this in the morning,' Alain smiled knowingly, 'but I doubt Morwenna will be too angry. Well maybe a little disappointed. She's come to expect this sought of foolishness from Hamon, not you.' 

Godric muttered another apology, finally looking at his uncle. As Alain's face fell sombre, Godric was suddenly reminded of the first time the two had met in the King's palace.

'Given what has happened,' Alain continued gently, 'and knowing how fond she is of you, I feared that you would have sought out Ella's services, or worse, one of Morwenna’s maids.’

Godric was too drunk to hide his blushing face. He'd been considering doing just that. Besides, he was certain that Salazar was doing the same by seeking solace in Rhyannon's comforting embrace.

'I didn't feel like doing much,' he lied unconvincingly. If Alain noticed, he didn't mention it.

‘Alas, I think Ella will be busy enough tonight,' his uncle admitted sadly. Godric shrugged. He'd probably consumed too much alcohol to even consider doing what Alain was suggesting, as Hamon had once sagely advised him could happen despite having next to no experience himself. Alain gestured at the half-empty costrel,

'You know that you'll have to face what you did eventually. Only then can you accept it and move on. Seeking comfort in drunkenness will only cloud your wits and rob you of your senses, nothing more. It may dull the hurt you feel, but it won't vanquish them entirely.' 

Godric didn't reply. He had immediately known why Alain had come to find him. What he didn't expect was Alain to take a deep breath and begin a tale which had Godric enraptured from the moment it began.

'You're younger than I was when I first killed a man,' Alain admitted quietly,

'I am?' Godric mumbled dumbly, gaping drunkenly at his uncle. Alain nodded.

'It was during the great campaign before Senlac Hill,’ Alain nodded solemnly, ‘I was eighteen and apprenticed to a Breton wizard called Taillefer the Mad. He was both a strange and powerful wizard. He was keen to join William of Normandy, who was mustering an army to confront Godwinson the Usurper. In those days, Saxon wizards were formidable opponents and William knew he needed magic if he was to win the throne of England.

‘The Old King rallied many wizards to his banner, promising them land and prestige if he succeeded. Taillefer had always been keen to pursue personal glory and he accepted the invitation almost instantly. As his apprentice, I went with him. I remember feeling exhilarated as we set sail for the white cliffs across the sea, eager to be tested in battle.

'However, I soon learnt that the reality of battle isn't as glorious as the idea of it. We spent weeks raiding and pillaging the land, trying to lure the Usurper from his strongholds. His army was exhausted, having to hastily return from the north to face us after winning a great victory against another rival and we knew that the longer the delay, the more reinforcements would rally to his banner. So, we plagued the innocent mercilessly. The first man I killed was a Saxon thane. In that moment, he was simply a man defending his hearth and family from Norman raiders. But when he came at me wielding a great axe, I didn't hesitate to cut him down.

'To my lasting shame, I didn't feel the guilt which has consumed you. You are an exceptional young man, Godric, for your heart truly shines with a nobility few possess. Unlike you, I felt pride in my achievement, believing that I had proved my manhood by spilling the blood of an enemy warrior. I had also tasted the chaos of battle and I began to hunger for it. Fortunately, the great battle for Senlac Hill soon followed.'

Godric sat mesmerised, his drunkenness forgotten. His uncle had never been so candid about his past before.

'What happened?' he asked curiously. He knew of the great battle of Senlac Hill, for many of his paternal ancestors had fought and died on that bloodied hill. But he hadn't known that Alain had been there, barely older than Godric was now. Alain shook his head,

'It was a bloody day,' he muttered darkly, 'and thousands died in the struggle. Taillefer was amongst the fallen. He defeated a Saxon wizard before the armies clashed, then led our forces in their first assault on the Saxon line. He met his death there, achieving an infamy in death which he craved for all his life. 

‘I remember little of the battle, other than the roar of the Saxons as we broke against their impregnable line of shields and spears again and again. Their best warriors could slaughter both a knight and his mount with one swing of their mighty axes, whilst we used spells and cunning to break down their shield-wall. I revelled in the chaos and I was good at it too, a killer of men. 

‘Yet, they refused to break, even when the Usurper was wounded by a stray arrow. A great warrior held their line and no Norman could defeat him. Being young and naïve, I faced the warrior myself, using magic which he could not call upon. It is still one of the hardest contests I have fought, but I finally managed to defeat him, although it was with luck rather than martial prowess. However, with their champion dead, the Saxon shield-wall shattered, and the Usurper was cut down, enabling William to claim the throne.

‘The King rewarded me generously and gave me the title of Grand-Sorcerer. I had power and prestige and I was young, arrogant and seemingly had the world at my fingertips. I met Hugh at that time, who was as young and talented as myself. He soon became my champion and trusted confidant.’

Alain paused to scratch tiredly at the grey beard which had grown over the course of their return from the north.

'Then came the Harrying. The Saxons rebelled in the north, led by the Seidr wizards. Normans were butchered, their castles burned, and so the King reacted decisively. Those were dark days of slaughter. I challenged two of the Seidr's greatest champions to a duel and killed them both; whilst Hugh fought like a lion when he slew that great troll with nothing but his sword. Slowly, we forced the Seidr out of the kingdom, shattering their power and disinheriting their Saxon allies. Few magical Saxon families survived the purge.

‘But if the war had been a dark time, then the aftermath was truly terrible. King William could be crueller and more ruthless than any of his sons when his wrath was stirred. He ordered that every man and boy in the north should be put to death and we carried out his commands with brutal efficiency. In the hands of fools, magic can do evil deeds. We laid waste to the land and slaughtered thousands, innocents as well as rebels. Countless more succumbed to the diseases and starvation which ravaged them afterwards.'

Alain paused as a small tear trickled down his cheek. He didn't look at Godric, fearing the incrimination he believed he would see in his nephew's eyes. After all, Godric was of Saxon blood and it was his people that Alain had had a hand in slaughtering. Godric couldn't keep the horror from his face, unable to comprehend how the fair peace-giver before him could be capable of such ruthlessness.

'I survived the Harrying,' Alain finally said quietly, 'but I was damaged; broken. I was sickened by the atrocities I had helped commit and the remorse threatened to overwhelm me. Every night I was haunted by the faces of the people I had killed and their cries as they begged for mercy. Overwhelmed by dishonour, I slipped into depression and when the guilt became too much, I finally tried to end it all.'

'No!' Godric exclaimed. Even in the magical world, suicide was considered a grave sin. That his uncle had attempted the unthinkable shook Godric to his core.

'Yes,' Alain admitted sadly, 'but the darkness robbed me of reason and I could no longer bare the self-loathing I felt. Fortunately, I was found by Hugh, who helped heal my blundering attempts at ending my own life and then stayed with me until my mind had somewhat healed. He forced me to swear an oath that I would not be so foolish again and when I refused, he threatened to finish the job himself. Held at sword point by my most loyal friend, I swore the oath quickly enough after that.

'When I recovered, I was still filled with loathing for the monster I had become but I grasped at the chance for redemption. Hugh was equally disenchanted by his part in the Harrying and we both agreed that it was in our best interests to leave Britain and escape the horrors of our pasts. I stepped down from my place as Grand Sorcerer and, with much reluctance, the King granted me permission to leave.

'Listen carefully, Godric. Every man goes through an experience which changes them profoundly. The Harrying was mine. You too will experience a life-changing event one day and how you respond to those challenges will shape you into the man you will become. I hope that when this time comes, you will choose the right path.'

Godric stared at his uncle apprehensively,

'What happened' he asked, 'when you left Britain?'

'We travelled,' Alain answered, smiling wistfully at the memory, ‘and sought to discover what magic could really offer people. All my life I had been trained to use it for war. Wandering aimlessly in those carefree years, I discovered that it could be a force for good. Fundamentally, I learnt that wizards were blessed with a gift that shouldn't be used for destruction, but to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Years passed before we returned to Britain.

'Christians speak of penance. If such an ideal truly exists, then mine came when I arrived in Avalon. We came here by accident, having gotten lost in the marsh mists. We had made camp beside the old willow and were settling down for the night when the Ferryman came and guided us to Avalon's isle. I faced the Trials and was judged worthy of the title of Lord of Avalon. I spent days exploring the ruins of my new domain before stumbling upon what I had not even realised I was looking for…'

'Morwenna,' Godric guessed. Alain's smile widened, lighting his face.

'Morwenna,' he agreed, a faraway look in his eyes, 'She was bathing in one of the sacred pools when I first stumbled upon her. I'd never seen anything like it. I think my gasp of surprise alerted her to my presence. Don't tell her I told you, but she remained standing naked in the pool, staring at me defiantly with eyes blazing like fire. I had never seen such a beautiful creature, nor witnessed a woman react so brazenly and I was struck weak by love. Then she was gone, disappearing into the pools depths. I searched for her, turning over every stone and exploring every pool before I finally met her again. I courted her; no easy task I can assure you. But I was blessed, and fortune favoured me, for she finally relented enough to return the love I felt for her and we married shortly after.' 

Godric couldn't help returning his uncle's smile. It was his first since the skirmish in the north.

'She loves you,' Godric agreed. No one could doubt that the Lord and Lady of Avalon were besotted with each other.

'And I her, for truly she is like no other woman I have met,' confessed Alain, 'actually there is more truth to that than you realise. Morwenna is a Water-Nymph, a magical being who protects Avalon's sacred waters and it is rumoured that the Great Mother charged Morwenna’s kind with this sacred duty, which is why she radiates wisdom and an otherworldly aura. It is also why she can't leave the Avalon’s boundaries, for her life blood is bound to its waters. Many call our love perverse, your father amongst them.'  
Godric was unsurprised by this revelation. Sir Edmund of Black-Hollow was a conservative man. Godric briefly wondered what his mother had thought of her half-brother's marriage. He hoped she had supported it.

'But I don't think so, for our love is purer than most. In those blissful days, she showed me that I'm a different man than the bloodthirsty beast I was after the Harrying and she helped heal the scars that still plagued me. I returned to the magical world a changed man and was soon welcomed back at court as a Grand-Sorcerer. Over the next years, I gathered a good household around me, with loyal friends to protect it. The guilt will never leave me, but it dwindles in comparison to the guilt I feel at the cost of our love, for Morwenna cannot bear children, even though we have both longed for a child to call our own. My guilt over not being able to give Morwenna what her heart desires most, no matter how skilled a wizard I am, is far greater than any remorse I've ever felt for killing a man.'

He drifted into silence, Alain thinking of bygone years and Godric contemplating the nature of the guilt which had plagued him for days. The half-emptied costrel lay forgotten in his hand.

'Does it get easier?' Godric finally asked timidly, 'to cope with the guilt?'

'No, it doesn't,' Alain admitted sadly, 'but fighting the darkness of this world, even when that darkness is inside us, never gets easier. However, it is the right thing to do and we should not fear what is right.'

'I felt scared,' Godric suddenly confessed in a rush, his eyes beginning to water, 'when Hadrian fell, and the fighting started, I was crippled by fear. I can't help but feel that if I had reacted quicker, had kept my head, then maybe I could have saved him!’

'That arrow was tipped with poison,' Alain said sternly, 'if the task was beyond Isolde, the most accomplished of my retainers in the healing arts, then it certainly demanded more expertise than you can yet supply. I'm not surprised you were paralysed by fear; when that thane attacked me all those years ago I was almost unmanned by fear. However, prepared you are, the fear never goes away, whether for your own life or that of a friend. It is how you respond to it that makes you a man and on that day, you conquered it. If you hadn't, then I would be dead and you would be mourning me as well as Hadrian.'

Finally, the unshed tears came, beginning to stream down Godric's cheeks as he put his head in his hands and sobbed in relief. His uncle draped a consoling arm across his shoulders,

'It was I who failed Hadrian,' Alain admitted sombrely, 'and I who failed the Forester and his daughter. Do you know why we fight Godric?'

'To protect those who cannot protect themselves?' Godric said, repeating his uncle's earlier words. Alain nodded,

'We fight to protect the innocent.' Alain lectured him solemnly, 'people like that poor little girl, to stop others like her from having their lives cut short by evil men. We don't always succeed, but as long as we strive to do that, to use our magic for good, then there will always be hope to battle the encroaching darkness.' 

Alain's voice cracked and suddenly revealed the extent in which the recent deaths of his friends and allies weighed heavily on his uncle's conscience. In the eyes of the Seidr, that little girl and her kindly father had been traitors, and the penalty for aiding the Seidr's most hated foe had been a tortured death.

'What legacy will I leave?' Alain despaired, 'will my life and actions have ramifications long after I am gone. Will I be remembered in a thousand years? I doubt it, it is too much for any man to hope. I will be forgotten long before then, my bones turning to dust and with no bloodline to cherish my memory.'

Godric marvelled at the vulnerability his uncle was openly displaying. For years, Alain had been a pillar of strength to his nephew, his kind actions and wise words helping to forge him into the promising young man he was today. Godric owed too much to Alain to allow him to wallow in remorse for events that were out of his control. He didn't know if it was the drink running through his veins, but when he'd gained Alain's attention by telling him this, he threatened to finish the job Hugh had started all those years ago.

'By Merlin, you don't mince your words,' Alain laughed weakly in disbelief,

'Besides,' Godric shrugged, passing the costrel to his uncle, 'you have Salazar, Hamon and me. We are your legacy.' 

Alain fell quiet, contemplating Godric's kind words with a proud smile.

'What a pair we make,' Alain chuckled ruefully, 'I swear you're more Hugh's nephew than mine. You don't suffer fools and speak the truth just as bluntly as Hugh'

'I've had practice,' Godric joked, his drunkenness loosening his tongue 'Salazar can mope with the best of them when he wants. If the world was filled with people like you two, we'd never get anything done.'

'Says you,' Alain snorted, reminding Godric that it was his surliness and despondency which had persuaded Alain to seek him out. Godric smiled sheepishly but was pleased to see his uncle regain some of his old vigour. He fell silent as Alain swigged the potent drink and grimaced at the burning taste.

'What did the symbol mean?' Godric suddenly asked, his smile slipping, 'the one on the ring that the man I killed wore?'

'The White Falcon?' Alain responded darkly, 'well, I suppose this is a night for blunt truths. The White Falcon is the badge of a powerful family of Seidr known as the Ragnarssons. I haven't seen it for many years and until I saw that man's ring I believed that their bloodline was extinct. I'm hardly surprised they survived as they have many kinsmen across the northern seas. For a century, their seat of power was in Britain. They are a fierce and violent brood and their ruthlessness knows no limits.'

When Alain paused, Godric knew he had left much unsaid. Alain sighed as his nephew looked at him expectantly,

'For someone so terrible at lying, there is no fooling you. The Ragnarssons lost many kinsmen in the Harrying. They never forget a slight, although how they came to be so far south is beyond my understanding.'

'They wanted you dead!' Godric said with the certainty of youth.

'Alas, I think you are right,' Alain agreed thoughtfully, 'but I suspect others had a hand in plotting it. The Ragnarssons lack the resources or the courage to try this alone. Who influenced their schemes I do not know. But they would have succeeded if you hadn't thwarted them and they will seek to kill you for that. Kinship is everything to the Seidr and bloodier feuds have been started for less. You will have to die before they can honour his wretched memory.'

Godric nodded, thankful for Alain's warning. The Ragnarssons were just more names to add to the growing list of people who wished to see him dead and he was only fifteen. Alain felt the anxiety radiating from his nephew and easily guessed the cause. However, before he could offer any comfort, Godric spoke in a voice which held no fear,

'What happens now?'

'Now is the time for us to act,' Alain replied firmly, marvelling at his nephew's bravery, 'an attack on my own life I can accept, but an attempt on the lives of my followers and the murder of a friend I can never forgive. The Lord of Avalon is a title which carries a lot of influence in the magical world. I rarely use the privileges it affords me, but I feel that my hand has been forced. Tonight, my messenger-hawks are already on their way to my peers on the Wizengamot, the High Council of Britain. I have demanded that a great assembly is called. If they agree to my request, then it shall be held during Lughnasadh, when many of the wizards and witches of Britain muster to celebrate our sacred festivities. There, we shall seek justice for our murdered friends.

'You shall accompany me,' Alain said lightly before Godric could request to attend, 'our venture in the north gave you a taste of how fractured the magical world has become. I have tried my best to keep both you and Salazar away from the politics which poison our society, but now can no longer hold you back. You are almost a man; it is time I began treating you like one.'

'I'm not afraid,' Godric declared defiantly, his blood fired by righteousness, alcohol and his thirst to seek justice for those so cruelly wronged, 'when I first discovered I was different, I feared it. I've spent years fearing it. I remember my mother once telling me that one day I would need to find the courage to become my own man. She told me that I had the heart of a lion. It's taken me years to find it, but I will hide no longer. When I meet the dangers in my future, I will face it like a man, to protect those who need me most. That is your legacy, uncle.'

‘You sound like your mother and it is the most articulate thing I have ever heard you say,' Alain said softly, tears of pride running unchecked down his cheek, 'and the most truthful.'

Godric shrugged, blushing slightly at Alain's honesty.

'Besides,' Godric said with drunken certainty, 'Avalon is impregnable, whoever wants me dead can't harm me here.'

Alain didn't respond, a telling reminder of Godric’s ignorance. Everything had a weakness, and nothing was ever invulnerable.


End file.
